I was right at the gate, about to board my nonstop flight from Detroit to Seoul. My hands shook, my heart pounded, and my stomach churned like the Pacific Ocean I would soon be soaring over. I was between worlds; one step across the jet bridge away from a new life. Swallowing the lump in my throat, I grabbed my purple backpack and waved to my aunt and uncle, who were seeing me off. A thought flashed through my mind.

“It’s not too late. I can stop right now. I can go home. I don’t have to do this.”

It was a distinctive moment, a clear division between my two worlds, when I chose something that would change me forever—something that, once begun, would alter my future in unknown ways.

Some of those changes were hellish (mentioned in Part One). Others were incredibly freeing and beautiful.

Liminality as a Path to Transformation

Think of the feeling of being in a hallway, on a bridge, at an airport, or in a stairwell…my guess is, you probably haven’t actually thought that much about it. That’s because these spaces exist primarily to get us from one place to the next; they are not destinations in and of themselves. They are liminal spaces.

Liminal spaces stretch beyond physical places, though. They can also be metaphysical realities. When you’ve left something behind and are heading somewhere (but don’t know where yet), you enter into what psychologists call “liminality.” It’s a prolonged season of transformation in some significant, yet unknown, way—a concept expanded by Victor Turner to describe the disorienting but transformative space between identities (read more).

We all experienced this phenomenon in one way or another during the COVID-19 pandemic. We collectively knew that we had left behind a version of reality and the world, and perhaps even ourselves, that we would never, ever return to. However, we were uncertain about where we would be and who we would be afterward. In fact, psychologists noted during the pandemic that many people experienced a similar sense of disorientation and identity shift as normal life was abruptly suspended.

Living as an expat is much like that experience. Going months without any physical contact with all that was once familiar, you emerge changed. And if you allow it, moving abroad is a perfect doorway to an even better, well-rounded, whole version of oneself. Research from the Harvard Business Review suggests that living abroad boosts self-awareness and helps develop a clearer sense of identity (article here).

The gift of living abroad is the chance to start completely fresh. In the silence and liberation from the voices, pressures, and demands of your own culture, you have the freedom to grow and be challenged in new and beautiful ways.

It’s a reality that I never would’ve experienced had I stayed in my home country.

Life Can Be Lived Differently. And better.

What I haven’t told you about living abroad is that you discover life can be lived differently than how you’ve always lived it. And that can be a really, really good thing.

It’s shocking to consider how many of us have lifestyles that are simply a product of the societies we grow up in. Our various cultures and social groups inform us of what is an “acceptable” and “good” way to spend our time, money, and energy. Our environments are so powerful in shaping us that we often never step back and ask ourselves… “wait, but what is it that I want for my life?” “How do I want to spend my free time, my money, and my weekends?” This dynamic is widely supported by cultural psychology research (overview) from Stanford University. Living abroad opens your eyes to see that life can be lived in a myriad of ways, and not one specific way is the best. Rather, each place on earth has something beautiful to offer and teach us, alongside its disadvantages and flaws.

I’ve loved observing how vastly different life in Asia is from life in North America. I love seeing how people spend their money differently, their weekends differently, their evenings after work differently. I love seeing how they spend time with their families and celebrate the changing of the seasons.

“Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild, precious life?”
— Mary Oliver

Untethered as I am from my own culture and society, I’m free to ask the question of myself—“how do I truly desire to live the one wild, precious life God has given me?”

And I’m blessed enough to have the ability to go out and live it.

A Bird’s-Eye View of Life… or a God’s-Eye View

Putting my life into perspective has always been something I’ve struggled with. Blame it on my youth, but it’s hard for me to see the big picture sometimes.

However, moving abroad seemed to expedite the process of getting a perspective on life.

In my first few weeks of work in South Korea, I went through quite a lot. As I’ve mentioned in previous articles, hagwon life is grueling and bears an uncanny resemblance to survival TV shows. Every day in that first month, I wondered if it would be the day my director called me into her office to tell me I was getting kicked off the show, eliminated from the final round, and sent back to the States. I was terrified of that happening, but also secretly wanted the relief of being home again. My moods swung up and down, up and down.

Everyone rushed around like blurry figures, stressed and obsessed with the little circle of parents, school directors, and local competition with other hagwons. Then, a realization dawned on me: up until three weeks ago, all the drama of the hagwon was irrelevant and unimportant to me. I was happily living my American life with my American family. I realized in a single seventeen-hour flight, I could be home, and all the drama would cease to be an issue. In the same way, the drama and stress from my old life in the States seemed small and useless, now that I was so far from it. It seemed silly. Laughable, even. No one in Korea cared about my Midwestern bosses, the petty high school friends who ghosted me, or the weird roommate drama from college.

A bird’s-eye view of life, or rather—a God’s-eye view—really set in.

It’s natural to become mired in the little bubbles we call home. Entangled as we are in the stress and challenges of our existences, we lose sight of what truly matters. Our trials are not invalid; however, they’re often not as weighty as we think. Moving abroad gave me the incredible gift of seeing life with perspective. Psychologists call this “psychological distancing,” where stepping beyond your usual environment can shrink perceived problems and clarify priorities (read more) from Psychology Today. Why allow myself to be dragged under stress and drama that wouldn’t even matter if I were to get on a plane and leave?

The world is vast, and human life is big and beautiful. And there are things far greater than the little problems I face in my daily life.

Standing on My Own Two Feet

Support systems are a true gift, and I assure you, this is not an attempt to argue that fact.

But did you ever wonder…what would I be without my support system? Who am I really?

I’m not scared to admit that I’m a privileged person. My parents worked very hard to give me an incredibly safe, happy, and comfortable upbringing. I’ve always had a safety net, a support system, and a safeguard in every endeavor I dared to pursue. While I’m endlessly thankful, I also wanted to find out who I would be apart from that. I wanted to test my personal limits and see what I was capable of on my own. Moving to a place where no one knew my name, my family, or my background made me feel unstable and shaky in the beginning. But as time went on, I began to fall in love with the freedom of standing on my own two feet.

At twenty-two years old, I am completely financially independent and not just surviving, but thriving in a foreign country. I work a nine-to-six job, take dance classes three nights a week, study a foreign language, volunteer at church, take out my own garbage, do my own dishes, and do my own laundry. Heck, I even go to the doctor’s office alone and pick up my own prescriptions.

Perhaps I would have developed those skills eventually, but who knows how long that would’ve taken. Being forced into independence through a move to a foreign country was a challenge, but it forged a stronger, more resilient version of myself that I am thankful to be. Psychologists have long noted that resilience is often developed through challenge, not comfort (resource), according to the American Psychological Association.

What a gift it is to be both supported by others and at peace, standing on your own feet.

What I Left Behind, and What I Came To

What I haven’t told you about being abroad is that it’s one of the most freeing, eye-opening, and humbling experiences I’ve ever had. Since moving, I’ve been flooded with new confidence and inner peace that I never had before. Signing a contract, packing my life into three suitcases, and heading to the other side of the planet was when I finally faced myself. It was like staring my anxious little Gen Z self in the face and saying, “You know what? You’re gonna be okay. We’re doing this.”

Being an expat unlocked a sense of safety within myself. I used to rely on other people, specific environments, and certain situations to make me confident, safe, and secure. Now, I’ve learned to place more trust in myself and in God. As cliché as it may sound, I learned to believe I can do hard things and come out the other end stronger. This reflects what psychologists call post-traumatic growth—the idea that individuals can become stronger and more resilient through adversity (overview). I can be the adult in the room, even when I feel scared on the inside.

I wouldn’t trade this season for anything.

Living in South Korea, the Land of the Morning Calm, I walk to school down narrow streets, shadowed by cherry blossom trees. Cafes are brewing fresh espresso, and savory smells waft out the open windows of noodle restaurants. I wave to the old man who owns the brightly-painted mart barricaded by impressive sacks of rice and rainbowed displays of fruit. I became friends with him because he likes to practice his English on me when I go to buy coffee and candy for my students. My days are full and leave me exhausted.

But it’s a joy. I’m surrounded by my sweet students whose hearts are so young, innocent, and full of wonder. Living daily life with them is like getting a second chance at childhood.

When I get off work on Friday, I catch a train to the next city. I eat my fill of samgyeopsal with a big bowl of rice, then relax at the bathhouse with my friends. We take the midnight KTX back to our little coastal city. I rest my head against the cold glass window and watch lights flicker on in the high rises, and the red glow of church crosses pulse in the distance. I doze off to the sound of the wheels on the track speeding through serene mountains and hidden villages. How does this country feel like home somehow, when I may be the only one in my family line that has ever been here? Maybe it’s because I’m learning that home is more than just a place on the planet.

My heart melts into gratitude. What I haven’t told you about living abroad is this—not only is it worth it, it’s a true blessing.

References

• Harvard Business Review
  https://hbr.org/2018/05/how-living-abroad-helps-you-develop-a-clearer-sense-of-self

• Journal of Personality and Social Psychology
  https://psycnet.apa.org/record/2009-06049-010

• Stanford University
  https://plato.stanford.edu/entries/culture-cogsci/

• Psychology Today
  https://www.psychologytoday.com/us/basics/construal-level-theory

• American Psychological Association
  https://www.apa.org/topics/resilience

• Psychology Today - Post-Traumatic Growth
  https://www.psychologytoday.com/us/basics/post-traumatic-growth

• Mary Oliver
  https://www.loc.gov/programs/poetry-and-literature/poet-laureate/poet-laureate-projects/poetry-180/all-poems/item/poetry-180-133/the-summer-day/

Four months passed before it hit me.

Four months of running around this little peninsula country, fueled by adrenaline, iced Americanos, and raw, youthful passion. Then, in a single moment, the weight of my reality collapsed on top of me.

Let me set the scene.

I embarked on a brief day trip to Seoul with some friends on a frigid, frosty day in early February. Patches of ice spattered across the brick sidewalks, and snowflakes glistened on the clay-tiled rooftops of ancient Korean homes. After a day of wandering the city, I stood on the rooftop of a cafe. It was tucked into a crevice near Bukhansan Mountain, at one of the highest points overlooking Seoul. The sun set, the entire skyline sprawling before me in breathless grandeur. Seoul is a stunning marriage of modern, sparkling skyscrapers and ornate, traditional villages and palaces. It lay there with its twinkling lights like crystal studs in the deep green mountains. The Han River flowed through the center, such a deep blue that it was nearly black. And of course, the Namsan Tower stood proud and steady against the orange-streaked sky, a silver needle piercing a shockingly bright tapestry.

And in that moment… my heart broke.

There I was, in the city I had been to so many times in my dreams and fantasies. Yet my heart felt heavy and tired. I was happy, but somehow sad. My dream was fulfilled, but I was somehow still empty. I was as free as could be, but trapped in my own head. I was confused. Hot tears pricked my eyes as the immense weight of moving abroad caught up with me in one fell swoop.

The sonic boom of leaving your home country

Moving to a foreign country is like a jet speeding through the sky.

Standing on solid ground, you watch it soar silently. It’s not until the jet has long passed that the noise catches up—the boom, the bone-rattling SHHRREEEEEEAAAAKK that shakes the plates in the china cabinet.

That’s exactly how moving abroad felt. I came to Korea in September of 2025, but oddly, the impact didn’t hit me until months after. The adrenaline wore off, and real life set in (Ward et al., 2001). The weight of the change crashed into me like a freight train. That freight train brought several unexpected psychological challenges that took me by surprise. At the same time, it also brought growth and happiness that I didn’t know I was capable of.

Now, the truth comes out. Here is what I haven’t told you about the expat experience—both its struggles and its joys.

Low battery. All the time.

Being an expat is stressful in a sneaky, silent way.

Behind the excitement, the rush, and the nirvana of being abroad, there’s a steep psychological toll being paid. Unlike students at university or employees on business trips, most expats go for prolonged periods without any physical contact with their previous life.

Typically, there are no Christmas visits, summer vacations, or “see you in a few weeks!”

When placed in new contexts, the human brain is constantly scanning the environment for sensory and visual cues of safety. Familiar faces and voices, daily rhythms and comfort foods, recognizable social cues, and steady seasons. These all give the brain calming messages: “We’re safe here.” “You can relax.” “You can let your guard down.”

Although I recognized that I was objectively safe, with good people around me, a stable job, and a comfortable living situation, my psychology was a different story. My brain received scant safety cues for months, putting my body and mind on high alert (American Psychological Association, 2023). The new language, different social cues, obscure foods, and unknown infrastructure led to constant “survival mode.” This led to a chronic psychological load that was exhausting (Chen, 2019).

Living as an expat, I feel fine day to day; it’s not like I’m spiraling into anxiety. But I feel off—like an old iPhone that has 100% battery one minute, and the next minute is down to 5%, with a screen that keeps going black to save energy. My daily battery depletes faster than it used to, my physical stress tolerance (think workouts, little viruses, daily inconveniences) is much lower, and I become exhausted far too easily for a 22-year-old.

I feel like I’m in a movie. But in a creepy way.

Please don’t institutionalize me for this.

In full transparency, there were moments when I didn’t feel connected to reality here.

I’d walk to work or go to the grocery store when suddenly an eerie sensation overshadowed me. I was suddenly behind glass, a viewer watching a show. My surroundings felt artificial and lifeless. I didn’t feel tethered to the moment; rather, it was like I was seeing movie characters playing roles before me. Of course, I knew everything I was living was real and true, but my brain couldn’t fully grasp it. A haunting sense that everything was “fake” or “dreamlike” overtook the moment.

When this first happened, I thought, That’s it—I’m officially losing it. But I learned there’s a reason this phenomenon occurs, specifically for expats.

The mind relies on familiar sensory contexts and patterns to anchor experience. When those get disrupted by a major change of culture and living situation, the sense of “this is real, and it’s mine” is delayed. This can cause a disembodied, surreal feeling that psychologists call “derealization” (Mayo Clinic Staff, 2025).

On the other side of the planet, life retains a familiar structure—people driving to work, children going to school, old ladies walking their dogs, and birds singing in the trees. However, that structure exists without personal, deeply encoded meaning. It left my brain to interpret it similarly to a movie set, a facade, or a mannequin. It was filed with other “unreal” encounters.

As time passed, this odd phenomenon became less and less frequent as I formed experiences and relationships that grounded me in the new reality. The structure of society registered with personal meaning as I built a memory bank of lived-in, daily experiences. But early on, it was a disorienting and ghostly experience that made me question my sanity. Thankfully, the derealization has calmed down now.

But I still question my sanity. Hehe.

Life turned blue and grey for a while.

It hit me right as the seasons turned—end of November, early December. One day, I was enjoying life as normal, adjusting to the new culture and finding my groove at school.

Then, suddenly, the sparkle dulled. Music that used to excite and entertain became annoying and loud. Podcasts that once fascinated me just felt like excess noise. I didn’t know what to wear and felt like crying trying to think of an outfit each day. Food tasted bland, I lost my appetite, and nothing sounded good. Shopping, walking, hanging out with friends, watching a good movie, and even taking a hot shower—everything that once brought me pleasure and excitement lost all appeal. It was the opposite of Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz. Instead of waking up to life in Technicolor, everything became grayscale overnight. I started to wonder if something was wrong with me.

Anhedonia was the explanation. Typically a symptom of depression, but in the expat experience, it can also be the result of prolonged stress and sensory overload. It’s a “protective” mechanism from the brain. After weeks of navigating a foreign environment and being constantly overstimulated, the mind temporarily mutes sensory experiences to make life simpler for a while. Like most other expat struggles, it eventually fades as new relationships are formed, the environment becomes easier to navigate, and the culture shock softens.

I’ve thankfully crossed a threshold where some color has returned to my days, but this was certainly a struggle for many weeks.

The hardest thing I’ve ever loved.

After living in South Korea for over half a year, I have concluded that anything worthwhile in life typically comes at a high cost to oneself.

Getting married, becoming a parent, getting a degree, launching a business, writing a book, creating a beautiful piece of art… all of these things have a price tag of blood, sweat, and tears. Moving abroad is no different. It has certainly challenged me in a myriad of ways. Some days left me wondering if, at any moment, I would snap for good. Some days all I could think about was going home, and everything felt like pushing a boulder uphill.

But I am convinced.

Living abroad is hard because living abroad is worthwhile.

References

Chen, M. (2019). The impact of expatriates’ cross-cultural adjustment on work stress and job involvement in the high-tech industry. Frontiers in Psychology, 10, Article 2228. https://doi.org/10.3389/fpsyg.2019.02228

Mayo Clinic Staff. (2025, September 5). Depersonalization-derealization disorder: Symptoms and causes. Mayo Clinic. https://www.mayoclinic.org/diseases-conditions/depersonalization-derealization-disorder/symptoms-causes/syc-20352911

Ward, C., Bochner, S., & Furnham, A. (2001). The psychology of culture shock (2nd ed.). Routledge.

American Psychological Association. (2023). Stress effects on the body. https://www.apa.org/topics/stress/body

I arrived at the city bus terminal at 1:30 am and was promptly told to be ready for work that morning by 9 am. This was after 20 hours in a plane and 6 hours on a bus. Little did I know, this was only the beginning of the shock that came with being immersed in Asian work culture. Specifically, in a Korean hagwon.

It’s not for the faint of heart.

Each country has its own unique approach to education and childcare. Recently, I’ve observed key differences between American and Korean education. Some I deeply admire, but others leave me bewildered, and even disturbed.

1. Privacy concerns, as I once knew them, barely existed.

A hagwon is a private academy that specializes in a particular area of study. More importantly, hagwons are privately-owned businesses that are ultimately selling a product. To win the hearts of parents, there are different selling points: a top-tier curriculum, rigorous coursework, and, unexpectedly, the feeling of home. Since students spend most of the week at school, parents want reassurance that their children are happy, cared for, and feel a part of a “family.” This is intrinsically connected to Korea’s highly communal, family-oriented value system.

“Wait, I’m allowed to take pictures of the students?” I asked my Korean co-teacher quizically.

Her answer was an overwhelming “yes!” Parents want pictures of their kids. It’s proof that the expensive tuition provides not just an education, but a well-rounded experience.

Another shock came during special event days (like Pajama Day and Halloween). I walked into my classroom to find my co-teacher helping our students change out of their costumes and back into their uniforms. My jaw dropped. A teacher helping a student change? In my home country, this would be scandalous and deeply concerning.

The final nail in the coffin for my Western-influenced privacy boundaries also happened on my first day: “Is there a separate bathroom for teachers?” I asked. Can you guess the answer? Nope. Teachers share the same small bathroom with students. I often walk out of the stall to find three or four elementary-aged girls waiting in line or washing their hands.

In the U.S., situations like this would likely raise alarm. And not without reason. Abuse cases and safety concerns are increasing at a staggering rate in American schools. Strict boundaries exist to protect children, teachers, and institutions alike. I entered my Hagwon job with an acute awareness of those boundaries, but found that such precautions weren’t seen as necessary here. The hagwon environment was meant to be like a second home for children, not a battleground where human dignity and rights were constantly at risk.

Refreshing, isn’t it?

2. Picky Eaters? Not really a thing.

American children eat brightly packaged, chemical-laden stuff that’s questionable to even qualify as “food.” McNuggets, Pop-Tarts, Lunchables, and Lucky Charms are staples of an American child’s diet, and no one bats an eye. This is normal. This is “kid food.”

But in South Korea, there is no such thing as “kid food.” Food is food, whether you’re six or sixty.

At my hagwon, one meal is prepared for everyone—the school director, the teachers, the office staff, and the students. We all eat the same thing, and we all eat together. No salads for the grown-ups and mac n’ cheese for the littles. My five-year-olds eat the same kimchi, soup, rice, and squid that I do. And shockingly, there’s no complaining. No whining. No spewing out of vegetables.

Hearing kindergartners say, “Teacher, more anchovies PLEASSEE!” is otherworldly and almost extraterrestrial.

Something else I noticed was far less frequent here: food allergies, childhood obesity, high numbers of ADHD and ADD students, and mid-day crash outs because the Captain Crunch glucose spike is wearing off.

Food culture doesn’t explain everything, but its impact is impossible to ignore. I could write an entire separate article just on this observation alone. The power of diet and how it shapes a country is staggering. For now, I’ll leave it at this:

You won’t find many picky eaters at a hagwon.

Nor will you find sick, malnourished children.

Coincidence? I think not.

3. Your one job is actually five.

Maximizing efficiency and minimizing costs are gold standards in South Korea. Transportation, infrastructure, and healthcare—it’s all built with these values in mind.

Hagwons are no exception, and I feel this truth in my bones every day after I get off work.

I remember opening the email from my hagwon recruiter in the Spring of 2025. Those were the days when I thought I would just be a kindergarten English teacher. Ahhh, I was so innocent and starry-eyed. I was so unaware of the work culture I was about to crash into, where working overtime is a standard, not an exception, and having one job is for babies. Or maybe not even that (I wouldn’t be surprised if the babies work more than one job in South Korea, too).

I mean, my recruiter didn’t lie—I am a Kindergarten teacher. But that’s not all I am. I’m also an English tutor, an elementary-school teacher, a homework helper, and sometimes just a glorified babysitter. Unless you are part-time, everyone at a hagwon works multiple jobs within a single role, and the expectation to excel is higher than Namsan Peak. Sometimes, I feel proud of myself for the crazy amount of work I accomplish in a single day. But most times, I come home with a sore throat, aching legs, and a brain that has taught so much English that I don’t even know how to speak it by 6 pm.

In every country, teaching is a demanding job. But in a hagwon, it has a particular intensity and hefty expectations that I’ve never seen in my home country.

4. You’re always on camera. Always.

When I was in fifth grade, my best friend Amelia taught me how to put tape over my laptop camera.

“My mom saw on the news that people hack into the cameras and watch you,” she said in a low voice, her eyes as wide as an owl’s. “You can never be too careful.”

This is a classic American concern: privacy and protection of personal rights. I’ve been raised around family and friends who had a keen awareness of both. That’s why it was unnerving and disturbing to discover that at my hagwon (and basically everywhere in Korea), you are always being watched.

CCTV—a private video surveillance system—is used throughout the country to monitor property, deter crime, and make police investigations smoother. At my hagwon, CCTV cameras capture every second, day and night. They’re hidden in the crevices like black hawks, waiting to catch a mistake. I’ll never forget the time when one of my kindergartners got a cut on his finger. We didn’t know where it had come from until his mother made a frantic phone call to my Korean co-teacher. She had watched the CCTV, and saw my back turned (helping another student with their backpack) when her son was running his fingers along the splintered, wooden edge of the whiteboard. A deep, unsettling “ick” overcame me, realizing I was being recorded every day of my working life.

I know my boss and my students’ parents frequently check CCTV and “monitor,” aka scrutinize, my teaching. In the US, this would be a huge red flag, since privacy is extremely valued. That’s why it was so off-putting for me. Even though I knew I wasn’t doing anything wrong or evil in the classroom, I felt uncomfortable knowing it was captured. Even innocent interactions suddenly became performative, knowing it was a broadcast. Any mistake I made was forever immortalized by video and could easily be rewatched, put in slow-mo, and zoomed in on at any moment.

I’m sure it puts many parents’ minds at ease knowing that what happens in the classroom is transparent and accessible at any time. I’m sure if I were in their position, that would make me feel more comfortable, too. And no one can argue the safety and crimelessness of this country (even if privacy suffers because of it).

But without a doubt, the “smile, you’re on camera!” lifestyle took some getting used to at first. And to this day, it still gives me the creeps.

5. Playtime is overrated?

I felt like Maria Von Trapp my first week at the hagwon. The iconic Sound of Music scene ran through my mind: Maria asks Captain Von Trapp, “But Captain, when do the children play?”

“The Von Trapp children don’t play, they march,” Captain says.

And in the same way, Korean children don’t play; they study. Out of a six-hour school day for children ages five to seven, there are two recess periods. And they’re just fifteen minutes each (sometimes less, depending on how soon snack or lunch is finished). This blew my mind. Play is vital to children’s wellbeing, education, and emotional regulation. It seemed extreme to only allow such small margins of time to engage in what should be a primary part of a child’s day. And it doesn’t end there. Games, videos, coloring pages, and music are strictly limited and typically discouraged at the hagwon.

Children are expected to study, write, and read. Everything else is secondary and therefore, disposable.

This was (and still is) a major problem I perceive in the hagwon environment, and in the Korean education approach in general. At first, I wondered if my play-heavy, homeschooled upbringing preconditioned me to be less accepting of the rigidness. Maybe this is the norm, and I was just the exception. However, as my circle has expanded and I discuss childhood upbringing with my friends from around the world, I see it’s a shared skepticism.

“Kids here aren’t allowed to be kids,” my friend from the Middle East said to me.

I nodded knowingly, “It’s true. I’m sometimes surprised that some of my favorite artists are from South Korea. Creativity is what makes art, and you need boredom to have creativity. And no one is bored in Korea; everyone is working.”

“Even the kids.”

6. One-size-fits-all education.

South Korea, in many ways, is a country that is “living in the future.” But there is a glaringly obvious pattern that remains stuck in the past—the lack of awareness and acceptance of special learning needs.

Learning disabilities are very taboo subjects here. This has created a culture where only “average” or “above average” children receive a high-quality education. If a child has a divergent learning style, attention deficit, dyslexia, or other special needs, they are typically pushed through the same system regardless. This is so sad to me. Healthy, bright, intelligent students who are just different usually end up on the sidelines and never receive the specialized help that would unlock their full potential. It’s happened more than once—I’ve observed a student who could benefit from a different learning approach. However, to bring that up with a parent would cause distress, anger, and potential withdrawal from the hagwon.

So it’s kept quiet. It’s brushed aside. It’s nervously laughed off. It’s “just put them in tutoring.” And my heart breaks.

South Korea may have lightning speed wifi, bullet trains, cafes run by robots, and ultra-safe cities, which give the impression that it’s a society ahead of the rest. But an outdated, one-size-fits-all approach to education with little to no regard for psychological diversity among children remains a major problem that will hold this country back if not addressed soon.

7. No shooter drills or bulletproof glass.

My junior year of college, I spent a Summer interning at Make-A-Wish. One of my intern duties had me touring a new school building where a fundraising event would take place. The principal of the school led my team and I through the sparkling, sturdy building. The smell of new gym floors and fresh paint swirled around us as the morning sun poured through the crystal, spotless windows.

“And here’s the latest technology at our school,” the principal boasted as we turned the corner, “an entire room shielded by bulletproof glass.”

Rather than being impressed, a wave of nausea hit me. The blood drained from my face, as did the awe and excitement I had felt moments before. This was an elementary school. What kind of country was I living in, where a bulletproof room was a necessary addition to an institution made for children? The school suddenly didn’t feel like a school anymore, but a warzone.

Since moving to South Korea, the safety of the hagwon is like a breath of fresh air. I’ve never once had to explain to my students what to do if someone came into our building with a gun, or a bomb, or a knife. The doors remain unlocked. The glass isn’t bulletproof. The trust is unbelievable. It’s surreal to live in a place where the terrifying realities of life in America are distant horrors read about in the news, talked about with disgust among Koreans.

It makes me hope for two things. First, I hope that America can restore safety to schools once more. And second, I hope that South Korea can stay exactly as it is, and its culture of trust is not poisoned by people with bad intentions.

I like my Hagwon without bulletproof glass.

8. Kids are held to a higher standard and, surprisingly, achieve it.

I’m not scared to say it: my six-year-old students are further ahead than I was at eight (maybe even nine) years old.

The “bar” set for children here is unbelievable.

Yet, somehow…achievable. I don’t mean just academically. Socially and behaviorally, more is expected of Korean children than of American children. And they can do it all. They sit still and listen to hours of English classes. They do science experiments with difficult steps. They share their toys and snacks without complaint. They use chopsticks, eat seaweed, memorize pages of English, and write. All. Day. Long.

It is incredible what a child can achieve when there are adults who believe they can.

I’m not going to say that this high standard is always ideal. Just because a child could be made to study all day doesn’t necessarily mean they should. There is a fine line between the extremes—South Korea’s rigid standards and America’s lack thereof.

However, there is something of value within South Korea’s belief that kids are capable of more than we sometimes give them credit for.

The future of the world starts with our children today.

Living and working abroad with children has frequently reminded me of one of my favorite quotes.

Whether it be America, or South Korea, or anywhere else in the world, the priorities and values of any country are made most evident in the way they nurture, educate, and bring up their children. Because the children are our future.

No place on earth is perfect. We’re all just trying to do our best with what we’ve been given, and instill in the future generation the truths that we’ve learned through our own lived experiences. My dream is a future where I can take the best of each culture’s approach to education and eventually apply it to raising my own kids.

For now, I try to take what I’ve learned and use it to impact the lives of the children I teach every day.

Other times, change is fast and instant, like a bowl of ramen.

Moving across the planet is changing me in slow and fast ways. I’m sure years from now, I will recognize the bigger changes that are happening to me little by little as I live in this new world.

But some changes are happening right away.

I’m so happy to be in Korea that I don’t know how miserable I am

I think I’ve been sicker in the past four months than I have been in the past four years. It’s like the Native Americans who got Smallpox from the Europeans—their immune systems were just not prepared for the foreign viruses. Between the physiological stress of a cross-continental move and working with children all day, I’ve had a different disease each month. I’m back to being the kid who always had a runny nose in every childhood photo.

It’s actually given me a chance to explore some different cold and flu remedies that I’ve never tried before. In South Korea, they’re more concerned with proactive prevention of illness, whereas the American approach tends to be reactive. Taking shots of red ginseng, wearing a mask, and only drinking warm water are weekly habits I’ve incorporated to protect my health and boost my immune system. I also had my first trip to the Korean doctor last week. At home, I always go to the doctor with my Mom, so I was pretty terrified. Thankfully, it was an easy and painless process.

Honestly, despite my constant battle with East Asian germs, I still feel excited that I’m even in Korea. My wonder at the unique life I am blessed enough to have for this season typically overshadows my own physical suffering. I’m smiling between my coughs. I’m laughing so hard I don’t notice my runny nose or shoulder pain. I think I used to feel like my physical well-being was paramount to my ability to enjoy life. Of course, it’s important. But I sense a change within me now, realizing that for a long time out here I haven’t felt 100%. Yet, I still have enjoyed and loved every month in this country.

Health is often imperfect, and physiological well-being is fragile. I’m accepting that I don’t always feel my best, but it doesn’t mean I can’t strive to live my fullest.

You wouldn’t believe what I eat most days.

Sadly, I am one of those girls who gets tummy aches for no reason. I can’t have too much gluten, dairy, sugar, or processed foods without feeling sick. Let’s just call it an “Everything-That-Tastes-Amazing-Intolerance”. Living in America, this was often a setback and a struggle. I always felt awkward at family events, asking for a gluten-free dish, or telling that guy that asked me out to an Italian restaurant that pasta made me turn red and look three months pregnant (no wonder he ghosted me).

But in Asia? It’s unproblematic. Gluten and dairy aren’t forbidden nor impossible to find—but they aren’t staples like they are in the West. Instead, rice, mushrooms, vegetables, and proteins are emphasized. I eat lunch with my students every day, and I could not be happier with my diet. But I won’t lie. . .at first, it took some getting used to.

I will never forget my first month here. Lunchtime at school was like being on a game show titled “Guess What Food is on Your Plate.” Green, slimy seaweed with black specks on it. Chunks of tentacles in my soup. Tiny, brown eggs from an unknown winged creature. And then there was a side dish made of small, silver, stringy things. I took a bite. A savory, sticky, slightly sweet flavor filled my mouth. It was crunchy and meaty. Not too bad, actually. Curious as to what it was, I peered closer, and that’s when I saw them: EYEBALLS. I was eating tiny, dried, dead fish. Myeolchi bokkeum, to be specific (a popular Korean side dish made of anchovies, almonds, rice syrup, and soy sauce). The fish stared back at me, their soulless gaze seemingly saying: “Go eat a peanut butter and jelly, white girl.”

I swallowed hard. My stomach churned. No. You were fine until you knew what they were. The flavor isn’t even bad. I looked away and finished all my myeolchi like a big girl. I ain’t scared of no fish.

Here’s what’s crazy—after living out here and eating this way for months now, I actually crave these foods and enjoy them. Maybe I’m brainwashed (send help). But actually, all jokes aside, I love Asian food and Asian food loves me back. I look forward to eating squid, octopus, and seaweed. I can’t go a day without a bowl of rice. My meals feel incomplete without kimchi on the side. And yes, even after my initial scare with the Myeolchi, now I gladly enjoy it. My South African coworker and I both agree that it’s actually delicious.

“The key is not to make eye contact,” I told her one day. “Oh yes,” she affirmed, “Never make eye contact, or it’s game over.”

All about me or all about us? Maybe somewhere in the middle.

“Stay healthy!” is something Koreans tell each other quite often. I’m told at work or out and about: “Take care of yourself!” “Eat well!”

These comments used to sound so kind and endearing, like genuine concern and care. But my skepticism of cultural standards unfortunately ruined that.

Shoot.

In a collectivist society, nothing is really about you. Staying healthy, taking care of yourself, and eating well aren’t so much about your health or happiness at all. It’s because if you don’t do those things, the collective will suffer. Your boss needs you to be healthy so you can create good outputs at work. Your family needs you to be well taken care of so you can take care of them. Your community needs you to eat well so you have energy to participate in helping advance society.

Coming from a highly individualistic country, there are times when this is refreshing, and times when it’s annoying. It’s inspiring to see an entire country of people whose default is to consider other’s wellbeing. But I recognize that in this, it’s all too easy to lose the value of the individual. A human being has value and worth as they are, even when they aren’t creating outputs that society deems “important.”

I think living in Korea has forced me to become less self-centered. My students rely on me to take care of them, educate them, and bring them up to be good humans. My days are no longer just about me. Being in an expat community, it’s vital to have support from other foreigners. I’ve learned how to lay my own needs aside at times and think about what other people are feeling or going through. Sharing food, medicine, clothes, directions to English-speaking post offices and health clinics—it’s all a part of the expat society I’m in now.

But I’m still American.

I still believe in self-reliance, achieving things through personal effort, and taking care of oneself for one’s own sake. I believe identity is something that comes from both our place in the collective, but also within ourselves. We stand alone before God at the end of time, but we’ll live eternity with “every nation, race, and tongue.” Like most things in life, I think it’s the balance we should strive for. So I’m learning to find a middle ground.

More than seeing the world.

Everyone says it’s good to see the world. I suppose I’m greedy. That’s just not enough for me. I want to experience the world, not just see it. I want to breathe it all in and sink into its different, uncomfortable, shocking realities. I want it to transform me, change me, push me, and renew me.

“Why can’t you just go on a vacation overseas? Why do you have to live out there?” I remember being asked before I moved.

Yes, living abroad is, by far, much more challenging than a vacation. But living life with foreign people in a foreign land, educating their children, worshipping at their churches, eating meals in their homes—those experiences you simply can’t get from a quick visit. They are shaping the person I’m becoming and changing me for the better.

So, like my Mom’s grape juice that took months to taste amazing, I’ll let these months in Korea pass by and continue to change me, deeply and slowly. Maybe I’ll even still eat dead fish with eyeballs when I move home.

You never know.

I felt like I needed to understand everything to feel safe and secure.

Time stretches on, and I’ve realized that many times, we can’t make sense of everything in life or completely understand why. Much of 2025 felt confusing to me (and in retrospect, still is). I choose now to cast my glance not on where I’ve been but on where I am going. I want to use my memory of the past as fuel for the person I desire to become.

Here is some of that “fuel” I’m taking into 2026.

1. Actually, it’s not all up to you.

I used to think that taking credit for everything in my life made me a “responsible” person. Any decision—however big or small—had immense weight. I believed that the results of my efforts were solely because of my inputs.

I took pride in what I accomplished, giving myself credit for any success. But, I also took any and every little “failure” as a result of my own imperfection. Relationships that didn’t work out, dream jobs that flopped, unforeseen roommate issues, etc. I interpreted such adverse circumstances as signs that I had failed, and I beat myself up about it.

I’m starting to see that this is a form of unconventional egoism. Thinking that all good things come only through my own efforts and all bad things come only through my mistakes is a way of perceiving reality that puts me at the center. It’s self-centeredness in an untraditional way, effortlessly disguised under the mask of “self-improvement” and “personal accountability.” The truth is: there are a myriad of factors that lead to the outcomes in our lives. God’s will, for one. Other people’s choices, the environment we live in, the societal climate, the list goes on. Obviously, personal choices do have an impact on the events that happen to us. But to shrink down reality to just me, myself, and I, and deny the multifaceted nature of the world…it’s simply illogical, and quite frankly—prideful.

2. Stop taking yourself so seriously.

I will admit, I’m a bit of a drama queen. I mean, why else would I write as I do? I sometimes imagine I’m living in a novel.

I feel things intensely, I’m highly nostalgic, I keep careful track of timelines and details. But this has backfired on me, because the slightest adverse moment becomes devastating. I take minor corrections as a blow to my self-esteem. Every falling out with a friend or breakup with a boyfriend is a tragedy that takes years to recover from.

We can’t always help how we feel, but we can coach our interior dialogue to be conducive to HOPE. That’s what I discovered this year. I need to laugh at myself more. I need to realize that this life is so transient, so passing, and we can’t let every little suffering put us back light-years. I was brought up to think strategically about the decisions I made. My parents instilled in me the value of making good choices because every single choice leads us to becoming the person we want to be.

I hold these values in one hand, and in the other, I hold the recognition that I am human. I’ll experience setbacks and make bad choices. And you know what? I can relax—because I’m not God. He has my humanity already interwoven into the tapestry of my life. He knows when and where I’ll stumble, and He’s already planned how it’ll all work out.

What a relief it is to not be God.

3. Don’t be afraid to explore—how will you know who you really are if you don’t know who you really aren’t?

No, I’m not advocating for anyone to “jump off the deep end” or make crazy decisions. I’m not gonna hop in a hippie van, or get a face tattoo, or marry a stranger. However, in 2025, I learned to stop being so avoidant of risk and failure. It kept me from living. Sometimes, the best way to find out who you are is to find out who you’re not.

I don’t think I ever would’ve known critical pieces of who I am if I hadn’t explored living with someone besides my family, working in uncomfortable jobs, and experiencing life in a foreign country. 2025 taught me not to run away from unknown things. Because it’s in living, experiencing, failing, and winning that we really learn what we’re about and who we are.

4. Love God for His own sake.

I’ve learned this year that my love for God is very flawed and very selfish. Primarily, I have loved him for my own sake.

I love him for the peace of mind I get from knowing he’s there. I love him for the sense he brings to life. I love him for the way it makes me feel to be a Christian and be better than people who aren’t. I love him for the aesthetic of loving him, of having a nice little religion to fall back on when the going gets tough. But this isn’t actually loving him. This is loving what he gives me.

From late 2024 and leading in to 2025, so much was stripped from me. Suddenly, God didn’t bring me any sense, or comfort, or consolation. I realized with sudden self-awareness how heavily I relied on these “accents of God” instead of God himself. So, I prayed to be like the poor widow in Jesus’ parable who put one coin into the temple treasury—she “gave in her poverty all she had, her entire livelihood.” That is what I desire to do with my life. I was granted an incredible grace to give to God from my own poverty. In past years, I see that I have given to him from my abundances—my wealth of security, hope, and comfort. This year, I want to keep loving him for who he is. Not just for what he gives me.

Because he is so, so good.

5. Learn to “Let them.”

This past year, I’ve been obsessed with the “Let Them Theory” by Mel Robbins. I started out listening to the podcast, and eventually purchased the book while in Seoul over Chuseok. Wow. What a life-changing read.

The whole idea behind the Theory is learning to accept that—no matter how much you try—you cannot control others. Instead, you must learn to let them be who they are. Let them make their own choices and face the consequences. Saying “let them” freed me and gave me energy to focus on my own decisions, reactions, and boundaries (the only thing I can actually control).

This became such a necessary skill I needed to develop, especially when I moved abroad. Initially, when I shared the news of my cross-continental move with my circle of friends and family, the range of reactions was jarring. I was met with support and skepticism, excitement and fear. In one corner, I was told I was “an inspiration” and “brave,” and in the other, I was told I was “rash” and “shouldn’t have watched so many K-pop music videos” (haha, maybe they had a point). I could have absorbed it all like a sponge and allowed it to sway my convictions.

But instead, I decided to let them.

Let them be upset that I’m moving away. Let them think I’m brave (even though I’m terrified). Let them think I’m shallow and only moving to Korea to meet a K-pop looking man and get married (oh, that one really annoyed me). When I allowed the people around me to feel how they felt, instead of trying to manage their emotions or control their perception of me, I was able to focus on my own internal convictions and cultivate peace. I’m nowhere near perfect at doing this, but it’s a habit I hope to continue into the new year.

It’s incredibly freeing.

6. Everything is fading. So enjoy it. Or don’t and just relax, because it’ll be over soon anyway.

I had a flashback the other day to my post-graduation, car dealership Summer. I was living alone in a city I didn’t like, in a dirty apartment, and feeling completely lost. At that time, it felt like everything. And I was miserable.

Looking back, I wish I could’ve told my twenty-year-old self to take a breath—because it wasn’t going to last. I wish I could tell my panicked, younger self, “Calm down. Try and enjoy life a little more. Have your siblings over to your apartment. Go visit your best friend on her lunch break. Stop freaking out over making another car sale. You’ll be living in South Korea in two years anyway.”

Maybe it’s my youth, but I tend to get really absorbed in whatever season I’m in and lose perspective. 2024 to 2025 were a bit odd for me; I spent so many little stints of time working different jobs and living in different places. On the other side of it, I’ve learned that everything is sand slipping through our fingers. Seasons change quickly. Leaves turn over. Life goes on.

I’m trying to rest more in the place I’m in. I want to enjoy where I am and embrace it wholeheartedly so there are no regrets. So if you’re in a bad season, you can breathe because it will end eventually. And if you’re in a good one, embrace it with all you are, because it won’t be like that forever.

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Not because it isn’t beautiful. Not because the celebration is insincere. It’s simply because, growing up in the Judeo-Christian-influenced West, the quintessential Christmas was all I ever knew. Towering Fraser Firs decked in ornaments, snow-shrouded neighborhoods, twinkling candles in foggy windows, and stockings bursting with goodies. . .it was the same, comforting ritual—year after year.

Korea’s Christmas is composed of borrowed traditions from Europe and America, which creates that “off-brand” feeling. The Holiday is celebrated, but not like back home. Similar to celebrating Chinese New Year in America, it would be enjoyable, but wouldn’t carry the authentic, long-standing tradition with it.

Lights twinkle on the bushes in front of City Hall, emitting an eerie LED glow. Folks dressed up in long, black puffer coats and KN95 masks look more like Darth Vaders, rather than Eskimos. A Christmas tree, decorated with my Hagwon’s school colors, sits at the entrance of school.

And me? I’m burning up with a fever. My whole body is exhausted. Everything hurts.

Learning to be here.

I’ve been abroad for over three months now. It’s the longest I’ve been apart from my family, and the initial “honeymoon” phase has faded. I’m not a tourist. But I’m not fully “settled,” either. I’m not who I was before. But I am not yet who I am becoming.

Don’t get me wrong—I still love this country, my students, my life.

But that’s just it, it’s life now.

No longer riding a constant hit of adrenaline fueled by novelty and fun, my nervous system plummeted into overstimulated exhaustion. I woke up on Christmas Eve feeling hot and heavy. I took some fever medicine and dragged myself through the day, crashing into bed when I got home.

Christmas Day, well, I felt the same.

On Christmas morning, instead of tearing open brightly wrapped presents, sitting by the fire with my siblings, or eating those amazing Speculatus cookies my Mom always makes, I was alone in my apartment. Pale, wintry sunlight filtered through my window. Chills wracked my body, so I spread out like a jellyfish on my heated floor. Bing Crosby’s “I’ll Be Home for Christmas” crooned from my phone speaker. Stringed lights on my wall glistened, trying their best to cheer me up. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath.

Suddenly, a new song came on my Christmas playlist—“Hark! The Herald Angels Sing.” It was Nat King Cole’s version, carrying into verses I hadn’t heard since my Children’s Christmas Choir days.

My heart froze like a blizzard as those words sunk into my soul:

Mild he lays his glory by,
born that we no more may die,
born to raise us from the earth,
born to give us second birth.

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Christmas, stripped down.

In that moment, I thought of Christmas from a brand-new angle. I thought of Mary and Joseph, uncomfortable and exhausted from their travels. They, too, were sojourners in a foreign land. How scary that must have been, giving birth in a stable-cave thing. Maybe Mary missed her Mom.

I thought of those tender, intimate moments of Christ’s birth, quickly cut short by death threats from King Herod.

Then, Joseph and Mary moved abroad, not knowing when they would return.

Mild, he lays his glory by. God became a baby, completely helpless, dependent, and unable to communicate except through cries and coos. Living abroad, I feel like a baby most days (I probably sound like one, too). Just like Jesus when he first came into the world, I am unable to communicate to the fullest extent.

Born that we may no more die. Jesus comes into every part of our existence, and therefore, he redeems it. No longer restrained by fear of death and unchained from the bondage of sin, we have the freedom to live abundantly.

Born to raise us from the earth, born to give us second birth. This is it. This is the pinnacle of Christmas. We are so infinitely loved that God came to us. Became one of us. That’s why we celebrate. That’s why we can rejoice, no matter where we find ourselves this time of year.

Oddly, apart from everything that made me feel like “Christmas”—no cookies, presents under the tree, or even church—I realized that life-changing truth: Christmas still stands, because Jesus still comes.

It is radical, deeply personal, and transformative, if we allow it to be.

Still, He comes.

I’m not going to pretend like this Holiday season wasn’t hard. But, it was also the first time I had a chance to look at this Holiday as more than a Holiday, but as metanoia, “a fundamental change of mind, heart, or way of life.”

Not just in history, but in my life.

Sure, Korea’s holiday season may remind me of eating Walmart-brand graham crackers (it’s not the same—just buy the Honey Maid kind!). Yes, my lingering flu symptoms are annoying, and having to go into work sick is never fun. But Christmas persists, independent of all of that.

Hark! The herald angels sing, glory to the newborn king.

I promise, I’m not Miss Hannigan from Annie. I’m just overwhelmed.

Living in America, I took for granted how nice it is to know what’s going on. I never expected the incredible mental strain that would follow a cross-continental move. Now, in a place where my language isn’t the default, I encounter situations daily where it feels like pushing a boulder up a steep hill. Just to communicate, connect, and coexist.

A normal morning in a foreign language

I woke up, and my apartment was freezing. I tiptoed across the icy wooden floor to turn on my thermostat. The buttons flash back at me, all in Korean. I pushed a few, trying to yank the Korean word for heat out of my memory, but my mind couldn’t manage a second language so early in the morning.

“Ugh, I’ll be leaving for work in 30 minutes anyway. There’s no point.”

I walked to work, taking bites of apple while my hair whipped around in the late-Autumn wind. My phone pinged with a notification from my Korean bank. Something about a withdrawal from my account…wait, what withdrawal? I didn’t buy anything!

I opened the app and frantically swiped through transaction records. Korean words glared back at me. All I understood were the numbers. I strained to piece together fragments of memory from the past month and guess which purchase was which.

“I’ll worry about it when I get home later.” I threw my phone back into my tote bag.

The dreaded Thanksgiving craft

When I arrived at work, I was promptly reminded of the American holiday I was missing out on by a “turkey craft” sample on my desk. I was supposed to do it with my students that day.

My heart sank as a craft-time horror movie flashed through my head: ten five-year-olds with glue and scissors and tiny colorful strips of paper that get everywhere and sticky desks and sticky fingers and shrilling voices calling “Kathryn Teacher, HEEELPPP!” all at once.

The worst part of all? Not even the craft itself.

It was the part that came before: explaining how to do it in English to children who don’t really know English.

This happens at least once a week. I’m expected to give directions to little people who only understand half of the words coming from my mouth. Their frustration and confusion inevitably lead to “meltdown mode”—tears, Korean whining, and craft supplies thrown to the floor.

Miraculously, I got through the morning with only one colorful turkey in the trash can and two meltdowns. Out of ten students, I decided to call that a win. I crashed at my desk, ready to savor each second of my thirty-minute office time before the bell rang for afternoon classes.

Then, the phone calls came.

Unswallowed conversations

My Korean coworkers spoke to students’ parents all at once, their voices swirling around me in a foreign haze. At this point, I understand just enough Korean that I can no longer “tune it out.” The conversations that happen around me are no longer background ambience. My mind automatically absorbs the meaning of the words—not even translating into English—but associating new sounds with known meanings. But I don’t understand enough to get the full picture. It’s like psychological torture.

I sat in my little office corner, my mind chewing on snippets and jagged pieces of conversations, without ever knowing what was happening. Nagging curiosity wouldn’t let my mind rest. It was like chewing a piece of chocolate cake but being forced to spit it out right before you swallow—unsatisfying and incomplete and unsettling. Soon enough, break time was over, and I was thrust back into the workday.

Thanksgiving, in Korea

By the time the final bell rang at 6:40 p.m., I was exhausted. One of my foreign co-teachers called out, “Happy Thanksgiving!” as she left.

Oh, right. Thanksgiving.

I glanced at the clock and decided there was still time to catch the evening Mass at the nearby Catholic Church. It was one way I could still make the day special. A chance to unwind, breathe, and pray.

At church, I sat in the back and took some deep breaths, still frazzled from the turkey craft, the parent phone calls, and the unknown bank withdrawals. When Mass ended, I gathered my things to leave. That’s when an old woman approached me (as they often do). We walked and chatted about safe topics: the weather, where I was from, if I had eaten, and what I do for work. All topics I could manage in Korean. Then, a new phrase came out of the old woman’s mouth…something about a student? All I caught was the word student. Did she think I was a student?

“I’m not a student, no,” I said carefully in Korean, “I’m an English teacher.”

The old woman’s face became quizzical, and she instantly fell silent. Shoot. I’d gotten it wrong. She smiled a little, chuckled, then repeated herself. I listened with every fiber of my being, even repeating the words out loud. It was no use, I simply had no clue what she was saying.

“I’m sorry, I only know a little Korean.” I squeaked.

The conversation stopped dead in its tracks, and so did the old woman. She sympathetically patted my back and walked away.

The breaking point

What happened next was the closest I’ve been to a mental break.

I stomped down the street, furious at my own inability to communicate. Oh, the things I would have said if I could speak this language! Oh, the things I would do! I could use my thermostat! I could understand my banking app! I could help my students! I could teach a turkey craft without needing therapy afterward!

The sky began to leak icy rain. Neon signs in a language I barely knew flickered overhead in dizzying colors. My stomach growled. I’d skipped lunch because I didn’t know how to explain my gluten intolerance to the cook. They don’t teach that one on Doulingo.

My throat burned and hot tears stung my eyes.

It was Thanksgiving at home, and while my family was eating turkey and pie in a warm house, I was walking home alone in the rain. And just like my Kindergartners, overwhelmed by the weight of it all, I broke down into tears.

What not speaking taught me

Not long after my Thanksgiving meltdown, I sat with myself and pondered why not knowing the language of the land was—and is—so devastating.

I like the ability to express myself. I like to talk about myself (I mean, I have a Substack). I like to freely communicate my thoughts and be instantly understood by whoever is listening.

When I really examined why losing my voice was so triggering, I couldn’t deny a glaringly obvious theme: my communication preferences all revolved around me. Living abroad put me face-to-face with the uncomfortable truth that perhaps my approach to people had never been about understanding them, but about making them understand me.

The desire to be understood is never something I will apologize for. It’s human and real and important. But placing that as the highest priority, sometimes even at the expense of others, is neither fulfilling or fair.

New Ears

Months into living where my language is largely unknown, I’v begun to recognize subtle changes.

I used to rely primarily on words to listen. Now, I’m highly attuned to facial expressions, vocal tones and pitches, body language, and even the intangible “vibes” someone carries. Rather than reducing my understanding of people to simply spoken words, my mind subconsciously stretched to absorb secondary forms of communication in an effort to make sense of my environment.

I’ve also learned to give people the benefit of the doubt.

I know what it’s like to be misunderstood, and I would hope that others would extend grace if I said something “weird” that came off wrong in Korean. And living in a place where English is a subject studied in school and not everyday communication, I’ve become more understanding when things are said that could easily be taken as offensive.

A while ago, my boss told me that “my face was looking better these days.” In America, a comment like that would’ve sent me into a spiral. Instead, I chuckled and moved on. In Korean, comments on appearance are a roundabout way to show concern or care. “You look healthy these days” or “have you lost weight?” are actually code for “I’m relieved you’re doing okay” or “you look like you’re stressed, I’m worried about you.”

Korean, when directly translated into English, can sometimes sound awkward or blunt. I don’t take it personally anymore. I believe the best in people and assume good intentions. I can’t say I was always like that before.

Keep on your shoes. Learn a foreign language.

Indeed, not just my social interactions, but my approach to humanity as a whole has shifted dramatically. Rather than expecting to be understood, I now seek to understand.

I’m not perfect at it (not by a long shot), but I’m further along than I once was. It can be lonely at times, but increased sensitivity and the willingness to listen beyond words has allowed me to build real connections and relationships, despite the barrier.

We’ve all been told to walk a mile in someone else’s shoes before judging them. I don’t think I’d like that. I’m quite fond of my own shoes. Besides, I found something better: live a day, or a month, or a year in someone else’s language. It changes you.

It certainly changed me.

Somehow, October slipped away on a gale of wind that smelled of old Summer, and November crept in the back door.

In my corner of the planet, the Ginkgo trees have turned to a crispy yellow, and the air is laced with a chill. Being far from home is bizarre during the changing of the seasons. All familiar, external signals that you rely upon to cue the passing of time vanish. No pumpkin patches, hot apple cider, thick flannels, or jack-o-lanterns to tell me it’s October. No Black Friday buzz, Macy’s parade, or roasted turkey to signal that Thanksgiving is near (what’s Thanksgiving? It’ll be another Thursday workday for me) *sheds a tear*. It’s a strange sensation of floating through space, where the days melt into each other, becoming a blurry sludge of time that is somehow both exciting and monotonous. There’s a unique joy in it, honestly. The autumn in South Korea is beautiful, irreplaceable, and unrepeatable—just as the ones back home.

If we were together, I’d take you to my favorite coffee shop—currently, Blueshaak (because their banana milk oat latte is RIDICULOUSLY yummy). We would sit and watch the leaves blow across the street, drinking in our lattes and the skyline view, catching up on life. Here’s what I’d tell you.

Recent moments that restore my hope in humanity and convict my undying monotheism.

“The Pepero Boys”

My friend and I were walking downtown the other weekend on a gorgeously sunny Saturday. We planned to eat our fill of tteokbokki, then go shopping for new denim. As we strolled down the pedestrian highway, we passed two elementary-aged boys. One of them was riding a scooter while the other held various packaged snacks. They had curious, mischievous smiles.

“Hellllloooo!” they shouted at us.

We chuckled and said, “Hi there!”

“Good English!” I added, as I typically do in these situations. Many Koreans who see me or my foreigner friends like to practice their English—especially the kids, who likely take English classes.

The boys laughed out loud and then rambled off in Korean. My friend and I kept walking. Five minutes later, the little boy who had been holding the snacks ran up to us, offering four sticks of Pepero. For those of you who don’t know, this is a popular Asian snack made of crunchy breadsticks dipped in chocolate. It’s delicious!

“For you! For you!” the boy said. He handed the Pepero over with a huge grin, adding a few extra words in Korean that I didn’t understand. He was delighted to share his snacks.

I’ve never met a ten-year-old boy in my life who would willingly share his snacks—or even approach—two strangers, foreign women in their 20s. The whole encounter was so sweet. And to be honest, not too uncommon. At school, my students love to share food with me. My elementary schoolers offer me fistfuls of dried ramen, packets of gummies, or pieces of chocolate almost every day.

I’ve learned to appreciate the profound and precious reason why sharing food is such a huge practice. For a long time, Korea was under severe oppression, and entire communities were at risk of starvation if they didn’t pull together and share what they had. Though those days are long gone, and the children I teach have never lived in such a bleak reality, the values of their parents and grandparents have been infused in them. Sure, it might just look like a couple of sticks of Pepero.

But culturally, it says: I see you, I care for you, I want you to survive too. I want you to live, and thrive, and be well.

“A Late Walk Home with Halmeoni”

I was finally able to translate the bulletin for the local Catholic church and was thrilled to learn that they offer weekday Masses. I love attending daily Mass as a midweek recharge and recentering. This past week, I walked out of church with a smile on my face. The night air was crisp and clear, and a full moon hung overhead in the starless sky.

“반가워요,” I heard a gentle voice say behind me. “Banggawoyo,” or “Nice to meet you.”

I turned to see an old woman, likely in her 70s, grinning at me. I smiled and introduced myself in Korean. She spoke back in a mash of Korean and English, peppering me with questions and comments…how long have you been in Korea? Are you single? You’re so pretty! What food do you like? Have you eaten? We kept walking as we chatted, and I expected her to turn off at the exit of the parking lot. Instead, she linked her arm in mine and continued to walk with me. It turns out, she lives in an apartment near mine. We continued to stroll and chat, arm-in-arm. Her English proficiency is exactly my Korean proficiency, so we combined our limited knowledge of one another’s language to talk. I found out she loves sports (it’s amazing how active she is as a 70-year-old). She’s also a teacher and has been for forty years. She has a grandson who lives in Germany. She loves cold buckwheat noodles. And she is Catholic.

As we parted at the crosswalk, she took my hand in hers and said, “We meet again! I see you at church!” She rubbed my icy hands, clicking her tongue at how cold they were. We said goodbye in English and Korean, and I walked home, feeling warmth spread over my body despite being chilled to the bone just a moment before.

I am endlessly grateful for the kindness with which the people here have received me.

The Bathhouse and Sauna

My two friends and I decided that it was only right that we should try the Korean sauna experience. After all, it’s a major part of the wellness culture here and not expensive whatsoever.

Last Friday, when the bell rang at school for the last time of the week, we packed up our things and took the bus to the closest sauna. Upon arrival, we went to the front desk to pay, but all the signs were written in the Korean alphabet. We read the sign wrong and ended up in the bathhouse portion of the building. And when I say bathhouse—I mean full-on BATH HOUSE. Like, Roman-empire-style, birthday-suit-only type of bathhouse. We stood there, two Americans and one South African, stunned and rather out of place, recognizing our mistake. We sheepishly crept back to the front desk, our translator apps ready, not giving up on our sauna dreams.

I’m glad we didn’t—because it was amazing and incredibly relaxing. We went back and forth between a 131-degree Fahrenheit sauna and an ice-cold room. Afterwards, my whole body felt like jelly. My muscles completely relaxed, and the tension in my neck and shoulders dissolved. I could feel my pores opening up and my soreness easing. The only thing I would do differently next time is hydrate more (because the sweating is very dehydrating). Also, I wouldn’t stay as long in the cold room. I felt a headache the next day, and so did my two friends. We did some ChatGPT-ing and discovered it was because we stayed far too long in the cold room. Apparently, we were only supposed to be in there for 30–60 seconds (we stayed for 5 minutes). We hadn’t felt the cold and didn’t even shiver because our bodies were in shock from the extreme heat. So yep. We really overwhelmed our systems.

But hey—know better, do better. It was still a great experience!

Expat Living

I suppose this isn’t really a full story—more like a charcuterie board of little moments I savor in my heart. I won’t lie, living alone in a foreign country can be downright scary. When I think about the time zone, the ocean, and the thousand-dollar plane ticket that divides me and everyone I love, a shudder goes down my spine.

Yet, I am amazed at how taken care of I also feel here.

I walk to the laundromat and see my coworker there, doing his laundry too. We chat about life, our students, and how much we love being in Korea.

I walk home with my coteachers, and we wave to the Hagwon buses as they drive past us at the crosswalk. “There’s our babies!” we yell, laughing at how attached we’ve become to our students. After spending 80% of our week educating them, feeding them, and playing with them, they’re like family.

I walk down the street to buy fruit from an elderly couple that sits on the sidewalk. They’re surrounded by their baskets of apples, persimmons, dates, and tangerines like royalty surrounded by pots of gold on a throne. I ask for four apples and hand the old man my cash. The old lady gets a bag and puts ten apples in it instead. My fridge is stocked.

My phone pings with a new notification—my coworker who lives on the third floor of our apartment. “Can I borrow your white top and heels tomorrow night?” the text reads. “Sure, come downstairs!” I reply. She comes to my apartment, both of us in our pajamas, and she goes through various items in my wardrobe. We do this all the time, swapping clothing and going over to each other’s apartments. Just tonight, she was having a chocolate emergency (you know, when you desperately need chocolate). “Come over, I just bought some!”

I go to a soccer game and see three students and two coworkers from the Hagwon. I wave to them and they wave back, “Kathryn Teacher! Hi!” There has to be some psychology behind how being recognized in public by people and having your existence acknowledged makes you feel secure. It’s like a reminder that you’re real, that you take up space on this planet, and that you are seen.

Life is far from perfect here, and it’s not like I don’t have my lonely days. But for being on the other side of the world, it’s such a gift to have people around that care.

Recent reflections that surely age my soul by fifty years

Overall, autumn in South Korea has been a beautiful season. I’ve been sick multiple times, definitely don’t get as much sleep as I’d like, and still wake up disoriented, thinking I’m in my room in America and then remembering I’m in Asia.

This makes me feel…shocked? And grateful. And overwhelmed. I don’t know, it’s complicated.

Like, I’m happy. But I’m also sad.

I thought that when I came to South Korea, I would feel pieces click together in my soul and would finally be able to silence the internal noise and sense of urgency that has followed me around ever since I became an adult. But to be honest, I still feel that. I still worry about my future. I still struggle to be present. I feel incredibly grateful for the life I get to live right now, but I’m also haunted by the incompleteness of not having my family and friends close. It’s so hard to have my job finally feel right, my lifestyle finally feel right, and to be falling in love with this country and building connections—but realizing it feels empty to experience such beautiful things with no one you love to share it with.

I worry that perhaps I’ve signed myself up for a life of longing and incompleteness. Because no matter where I go, I will always miss something or someone. In South Korea, I complain about missing my parents and my siblings. I think about Saturday mornings, talking with my dad over a cup of fresh coffee. I think about my best friends, hanging out together without me. I think about my sister, having hard days and long nights—all I want to do is be with her. But God knows…if I were back in the States, all I would do is complain about how much I miss cheap healthcare, mountainous countrysides, crime-free cities, kimchi jjigae, and affordable living.

So that’s my recent mental breakdown: Is happiness something we can ever really have in totality? Or will we forever feel an ache for more, a sense of incompleteness that can only point to the reality that perhaps we are all made for more. And perhaps that “more” lies beyond the veil of death, in a place beyond this world and in the presence of God Himself.

Why am I like this? I’m twenty-two. No wonder all these old people like me—they sense that I’m mentally their age (but somehow still young enough to spiral over everything and stress out over things I can’t control? Ah well).

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When I launched this newsletter/blog, my original plan was to release articles mainly on this particular topic. However, I suddenly found myself up to my knees in homesickness and a million changes at once. Feeling the need to process my experiences, I ended up writing more on the emotional, spiritual, and sentimental elements of life abroad. To all of you who have stuck it out with me through all of that and still keep reading—thank you! It means the world to me to have your support.

All of that to say, I’ve done my fair share of blasting your imboxes with Shakespearean existentialism at 3 am. . .so, now for some fun stuff! Here are some of the fascinating things I’ve observed living in South Korea that you may or may not have known.

1. Convenience stores EVERYWHERE with actual healthy food options.

You can find convenience stores on nearly every street in a Korean city. Sometimes, there are even multiples of the same kind—like two 7-Elevens—only a block apart. Everything and anything you could need is tucked in these tiny stores, and the prices are beautifully inexpensive. Healthy, filling food is readily available for dirt cheap: boiled eggs, packaged chicken breast, fruit, kimbap, onigiri, soup. Some even have sweet potato roasters right on the counter! Imagine getting a sudden pang of hunger, walking 200 steps, and being able to grab yourself a sticky, warm, roasted sweet potato.

What a freaking great life.

I could honestly write an entire article just about food culture in South Korea and how it contributes to the long, healthy lives of its citizens. But for now, I’ll simply say: the fact that convenience stores make it easy, affordable, and socially acceptable to eat wholesome food plays a huge role in why obesity, cancer, and diabetes rates are so low here.

2. Taking off your shoes indoors. Like, everywhere.

My household growing up was definitely a “no shoes in the house” kinda home. But South Korea elevated this to a whole. Nother. Level. It’s normal here to go into an office building, school, or restaurant and be expected to remove your shoes and leave them outside.

A few weeks ago, my co-worker and I went out to dinner, and I nearly got scolded because I started to step through the threshold still wearing my outdoor shoes. Imagine—the disrespect! The horror! I promptly removed my shoes and spent the rest of the evening shuffling around in my BTS socks from Etsy, refilling my buffet plate with as much glass noodles and marinated pork belly as a girl can manage.

Even at the Hagwon where I teach, the first part of the day is helping my kids take off their shoes and put on slippers. This makes so much sense to me. Think of the paid work hours that employees spend mopping and sweeping every night because people trudge through in their muddy, bacteria-laden kicks. Working in retail for years, I remember spending the entire last hour of my shift doing nothing but that. The money, energy, and time saved from simply removing your shoes before entering these spaces is brilliant. Not to mention, it is wayyy less germy.

3. Public transportation so good it would send my former car-sales self into a crisis.

Korea is incredibly connected by an intuitive, efficient public transportation system. From buses, taxis, subways, and the Korean Express Train (KTX), it’s easy and affordable to navigate the country without owning a car.

As an American, I couldn’t imagine life without mine. I’ve relied on my trusty 2011 Toyota Camry since high school. Without it, I thought I’d feel completely trapped. Being in the Midwest meant driving 30 or 50 minutes was a minimum just to get groceries, see friends, or go to work. Since moving to South Korea, it’s been liberating to get around the country without needing to get behind the wheel. Plus, my budget is much happier without the need to pay for gas, maintenance, or insurance.

Additionally, public transportation is also clean, pleasant, and safe. Unlike back home, where I feared for my life riding the metro in Chicago or even the bus in my hometown. But here? Elementary school kids ride the public bus alone—and no one’s doing meth on the subway. Amazing!

4. Doctors visits that cost less than a Starbucks drink.

Health insurance in South Korea is, by far, one of the biggest blessings of living here.

The way it works is quite simple. All residents are automatically enrolled in the National Health Insurance (NHI) program, funded by small monthly contributions based on income. Employers and employees each pay about half of the premium. It encourages preventive care—annual health checkups are usually included, and maintaining health keeps national costs low. After enrolling, you can visit almost any doctor, clinic, or hospital at any time without needing a referral. Visits are extremely cheap—patients typically pay around 20–30% of the cost, while the NHI covers the rest.

When I first got here, I was shocked to hear people casually say, “Oh, I went to the hospital this morning,” or, “I might stop by the hospital after work.” I soon realized they were just getting a rash checked out or seeing a doctor for mild cold symptoms. Healthcare access is so convenient and affordable that people can—and will—go to the hospital for any reason.

Cheap doctor visits. Affordable medications. Lab work that’s only a few dollars. It’s not utopia, it’s just South Korea.

5. Savvy and super cool apartment designs.

I never cease to be amazed by the wit and practicality with which infrastructure is designed in South Korea. Specifically, the apartments.

My apartment in the heart of the city is fully equipped with premium heated floors! Except, they’re not actually premium—they’re standard. This system, called ondol (온돌), is a traditional Korean floor-heating method. It uses hot water or gas-heated pipes beneath the floor to warm up the building. Since heat naturally rises, this method is more energy-efficient than forced-air heating, which requires more gas and power to distribute warm air throughout the building.

This isn’t the only design choice that makes more sense. I have what could be considered a “walk-in” shower, too! The sink faucet is connected to a showerhead mounted on the wall, and the entire bathroom is covered in waterproof tile. There’s no need to have a separate stall; the whole bathroom functions as a wet room. It’s a space-saving and cost-effective setup that also makes me feel like I have a mini sauna in my apartment!

South Koreans are savvy and remarkably practical when it comes to urban and housing designs. They prioritize efficiency in energy use, space conservation, and financial savings.

In America, bigger and more is automatically equated with better and best.

It’s refreshing to see such conscientious and sustainable decisions shaping everyday life, and also to see people thriving happily without needing sprawling houses or perfectly manicured lawns.

6. A footpath highway that’s good for the environment and your step goals.

I don’t know if this is just me, but walking around towns and cities in America (specifically, the Midwest) is lowkey awkward and sometimes even embarrassing. You feel the eyeballs of everyone in their cozy little cars gaping as they drive past, silently wondering, “What unfortunate twist of fate made you need to use your LEGS to GET SOMEWHERE?”

One of the things I’ve fallen in love with about living in South Korea is how walking is a commonplace, productive, and respected way to get around. Most cities (including my own) have designated walking paths that weave throughout neighborhoods, connecting restaurants, stores, parks, and businesses—all within reach on foot. And these aren’t your typical narrow, uneven slab of concrete sidewalks, either. We’re talking wide, brick-paved lanes landscaped with trees and flowers. They’re separated from the road, so pedestrians don’t need to deal with cars flying past them constantly. It’s like a full-blown road system, except it’s for walking.

In the U.S., there’s a big push for environmentalism via electric vehicles and low-emission public transit, which is great. But honestly, if even a fraction of that funding went toward building safer, more connected walking and biking paths, it could make an enormous difference. And that’s not the only upside. It’s ridiculously easy to stay active and in shape when walking is built into everyday life. I get 10k or more steps daily here, without trying. It’s funny that I once thought of walking as an “exercise.” Now, it’s just how I get from point A to point B. The exercise is just a happy by-product.

Transportation, the way God intended it.

7. No tolerance for tomfoolery = safest place I’ve ever lived

Being born and raised south of Detroit and north of Toledo meant two things for me. First, I learned to be highly aware of my surroundings and cautious of unsafe situations. Second, I grew up believing that nowhere was truly safe. I always felt that I had to be on guard and prepared for the worst. Hide your bags when you go into the store. Deadbolt all the doors at night. Don’t go out after dark. Avoid certain parts of town. Don’t make eye contact with sketchy people tweaking out on the street corner. I wish I could say these rituals were merely paranoia—but sadly, they were necessary. Crime and violence are rampant in America. In schools, cities, and even domestic spaces.

In South Korea, that’s simply not the case.

It’s exceptionally freeing and actually quite shocking to move here and instantly experience a sense of safety that I’ve never experienced before. Serious crime is rare, and violent crime especially so. School shootings, random assaults, or public disturbances are extremely uncommon. When incidents do occur, they’re met with swift, strict consequences and widespread public outrage. Korean society has a very “no nonsense” mindset—especially towards those who disrupt their deeply ingrained cultural values of mutual respect, social harmony, and collective safety. They will not tolerate tomfoolery. If you push it, you’re out.

Coming from the U.S., we may boast of our “inclusivity” and “freedom,” but sometimes that means we tolerate a lot more than we probably should, and have let things escalate to a heartbreakingly terrifying level.

Yep, this girl from South Detroit has been starry-eyed and awestruck at this strange new land of human decency and public safety. I can walk around alone at night without fear. People leave bags and wallets unattended on benches or cafe tables. Motorbikes or bicycles sit unlocked outside convenience stores. And you know what’s pretty great? I work in a school that has never once had to do an active shooter drill.

Okay, but South Korea isn’t heaven.

This list of things that just make sense here could go on. There’s so much to love about life here. However, I’m well aware that nowhere is perfect.

Just like anywhere, there are plenty of downsides and difficulties to South Korea living. Especially as an American, there have been multiple times I’ve been caught off guard, bewildered, and downright concerned. This isn’t a harsh judgment; rather, just observations from an outsider who knows well that every single country, culture, and society has its own set of positives and negatives.

Nevertheless, here are five things that don’t make any sense to me in South Korea.

1. Homogeneous beauty standards that are expensive and kinda fake.

As I’ve mentioned in previous articles, lookism is an all-pervading reality here. And while every country has its own beauty standards, South Korea is in a league of its own.

Back in the States, “beauty” may share some key features, but it tends to be more inclusive. Celebrities like Zendaya, Scarlett Johansson, Emma Stone, and Sofia Vergara don’t look anything alike—yet they’re all considered beautiful in the U.S. The same goes for male celebrities: Timothée Chalamet and Shaboozey (who couldn’t look more different) both landed on the Sexiest Man Alive list. In South Korea, whether due to a lack of ethnic diversity or deeper cultural factors, the beauty standard is extremely homogeneous. A narrow set of traits is regarded as the “ideal,” leaving little room for features that fall outside the mold.

What’s most concerning is how this standard goes far beyond basic “beauty” like clear skin or symmetrical features (though those are certainly expected). The ideal “look” is a drop-dead gorgeous, and nearly impossible, blend of East Asian and Eurocentric traits. It’s like a “best of” album, featuring only the highlights from both Western and Eastern faces: big eyes, plump lips, and a V-shaped jawline (East Asian) combined with a high nose bridge, pale skin, and an elongated, slim figure (European). This combination is a genetic lottery that rarely occurs naturally. Instead, this “ideal face” often comes at a steep cost—through cosmetic surgery, Botox, appearance-enhancing drugs, and skin-whitening treatments.

Yet, this image continues to be upheld as the ultimate measure of beauty in South Korea, despite how unrealistic and expensive it is. I find it a bit senseless, honestly. Beauty has so many different forms! It’s sad to see it whittled down to one extreme and unattainable version.

2. Spitting in public shamelessly.

This one gets me every time.

It doesn’t make any sense at all. South Korea is so hygienic, germ-aware, and health-focused. People wear masks all the time to prevent spreading disease. Hand sanitizer and cleansing wipes are always available at stores and restaurants. Social distancing is practiced regularly.

So you can imagine my shock when I first saw someone cough, clear their throat, and spit right onto the sidewalk—like it was nothing.

From what I’ve gathered, I’m not alone in this reaction. It’s easily the most common complaint I hear from fellow foreigners. While writing this article, I asked my Hagwon co-teachers what made their “can’t-get-behind-it” list in South Korea. No joke, every single one of them resounded the same shared ick: spitting in public.

3. Competition culture everywhere—even at kindergarten.

South Korea is just like that friend or sibling you had growing up who made everything a contest—even things that were supposed to be fun, lighthearted, and noncompetitive.

I know this better than anyone, because it was me. I was that friend and sibling. But now that I’m an adult, I’ve learned that while competition can be healthy, fun, and motivating, too much of it and in the wrong places can leave people drained, demoralized, and unscrupulous. I’ve noticed a lot of this in South Korea. Everything is a competition—salary, education, beauty, relationships, status, fashion, and health. It feels like everyone is in a race to get to the top, and if you aren’t racing too, you’ll simply get run over.

Even at my Korean Kindergarten, this cultural tendency is omnipresent. There are contests between classes to see who can sit still the longest, competitions between students to earn the most hearts on the whiteboard, or badges on their backpacks for good behavior. After my students finish their worksheets, they cry out, “Teacher, done! Everyone, I’m FIRST! I’m FIRST!” On the surface, it may seem innocent enough. After all, doesn’t a little competition help motivate kids? Sure, maybe a little. But I can’t help but wonder whether encouraging children to excel by pitting them against their peers is truly sustainable or healthy.

I say all this with the recognition that I’m not Korean. Therefore, there’s a deep cultural and historical context here that I haven’t lived through. Growing up as a Gen Z kid in middle-class America, I was blessed with financial security, familial stability, and protection from hardship. Many people here grew up in a system that demanded constant effort and sacrifice just to survive or succeed. So from that perspective, I can understand why there’s such an intense drive to “reach the top.”

Still, the truth stands: competition culture can only go so far before it turns destructive and counterproductive. And that’s why it makes my list of “Things That Don’t Make Sense in South Korea.”

4. Spam and sweetness overload.

This one’s a bit random and not that deep, but it’s definitely something I can’t get behind, no matter how hard I try!

The first thing is Spam. No, not unwelcomed emails and text messages. I’m talking about the canned mystery meat that hasn’t had a branding or ingredient update since 1962. Growing up in the U.S., Spam carried a wartime, depression-era, food-rationing vibe. But in South Korea, Spam is a common, everyday, delicious source of protein. It’s mixed into soup, rolled into kimbap, and layered in sandwiches. When I go to Emart, Spam has its own freaking display! Even popular restaurants like Eggdrop include “special menu items” featuring Spam. It’s basically unavoidable—so yes, I’ve had my fair share of Spam-laden meals since moving here. And honestly? They weren’t bad at all. Still, the mental block will probably never leave me. To an American girl, Spam is “highly processed, poor-people food”. Call me culturally conditioned. It is what it is.

The second thing (while on the topic of food) is that there are soooo many sweet things in Korea. Korean food itself isn’t overly sweet, but the Korean adaptations of Western food are another story. Bread of any kind—even garlic bread? Sweet. Yogurt (even the plain stuff)? Sweet. Chips, crackers, snacks? Sweet. Sandwiches? Somehow sweet. Cheese, oh heaven help us—SWEET.

It’s a good thing I genuinely love Korean food, or I’d be suffering terribly. But it still gets to me sometimes, because when you’re craving something that tastes like home, you want it to actually taste like home. And in Korea, it probably won’t. It’ll taste like dessert.

5. Too much status, not enough sincerity.

The twin sibling to the competitiveness in South Korea obsession with status and authority.

To understand this one, it helps to have a baseline idea of the philosophical soil that Korea’s cultural landscape grew from. Western culture was shaped by Transcendentalism, which emphasizes individual intuition, self-reliance, and the inherent goodness of people and nature. Eastern culture was largely rooted in Confucianism, which emphasizes social harmony, respect for hierarchy, filial piety, self-cultivation, and of course…status. Historically, Confucianism upheld a strict class system, dividing people of “higher” or “lower” ranks depending on things like family background, gender, and wealth. People were encouraged to stay in their class to preserve harmony.

Of course, these extremes are long gone. But the belief system subtly echoes in modern Korean life. Since moving here, I’ve noticed a strong sense of respect and deference toward those who hold higher status or rank (whether by age, income, job title, or even the kind of car they drive). You’re expected to show trust, honor, and courtesy to that person simply because of those external factors. This leads to what I would consider “pandering.” Even if someone doesn’t actually like you, if you hold a high position or come from a powerful family, they’ll go out of their way to be pleasant and agreeable in person—but vent about you the moment you’re gone.

I was taken aback by this. I’m the girl who once got on the phone with the CEO of a past company I worked for to explain the workplace harassment and toxic behavior that caused me to leave. No pandering from me—too American for that!

On a personal level, it’s just difficult for me to respect someone solely based on title or appearance. Whether I were American or not, I’ve always believed that trust and respect should be earned through character and action, not granted by default through rank or reputation.

At the end of the day, I’m just grateful.

Once again, I want to reiterate the outstanding truth that every single culture has its light sides and dark sides. This article, by no means, is meant to be a judgment piece as an outsider or a hyper-critical set of grievances toward a society that I’ve only been in for a scant month and a half.

Rather, these are my personal takes on the wonders of life in South Korea, alongside the disturbing and saddening realities.

Having said that, I can’t tell you how thankful I am to be here. Moving to South Korea was something that I dreamed of for years as a teenager, but never thought would actually happen. I still get excited just to ride the bus, go to the laundromat, or have dinner at a little restaurant. I’ve been received with kindness and compassion by the people here, and I am deeply passionate about the work I do, teaching English as a foreign language.

Every day, I am thankful to call South Korea my home, even if but for a season. It is a safe, clean, beautiful land. And I love being in it!

A peace settled in my heart.

Being away from the work grind for a bit and seeing the country in all its beauty was refreshing. For the past few weeks, it felt like all I did was fight to keep my head above water. The chaos of starting a new job and a new life in a new country at a new apartment with new people and a new language knocked me out.

I really felt like Maria in The Sound of Music when she leaves to be the new Governess of the Von Trapp children…

The sound of starting over

Between falling ill immediately upon moving here and being thrown into teaching after only TWO days of training (one of which was spent in a jet-lagged, fever-dream-esque haze), I hit a new low. Up to my knees in the struggle, everything began to feel like a drudgery, and I wondered what had possessed me to leave the ease and comfort I had back in the States.

I looked at an old journal entry from before I left for this trip. . .

I’m not sure what I was looking for when I came here.

I suppose I just wanted to feel alive. I wanted to feel connected with what I did every day. I wanted to feel like what I was doing mattered. Like I had a purpose. Like I belonged. I wanted to serve people and serve God. I wanted to grow as a person

I’m so weird. I worked hard to be here; for six months, I prepared and studied to get certified to teach English. I saved up every penny for this moment. I woke up at the crack of dawn to study Korean before leaving for my office job. Now that I’m here, though, I miss my family and my friends and the comfort of home. I feel like I’m drifting. I think if I were home, I’d be sad, but I’m sad here, too. I keep reminding myself that this is such a unique and short time of my life, I’m in the golden years of my youth, the best time of life to travel and open my heart wide. But how hard it is, how scary and challenging, to drop yourself in a world so different from your own. As much as I want to give myself permission to feel the ache of missing home and missing my family, I also can’t let myself forget—this was my dream.

This is what I’ve worked so hard for.

This is what I’ve wanted for so long.

Tomorrow I leave for Busan, and I can’t believe it. I get to go to Seoul this week and I can’t believe it! I’m so thankful. I’m so extremely loved and have so many people back home who support me and love me and have brought me up so I could even do things like this. Tears come to my eyes at the thought that I’ve flown so far away from the very people who gave me my wings.

I was overwhelmed between the dual experience of wanting home and family, but also wanting this adventure and life that I’ve worked so hard to have.

Remembering my “why”

It all crystalized when I was sitting in the Busan Igidae Cathedral the other day, the glorious melody of the choir enraptured my heart. Suddenly, it hit me why I must be here. I felt a solid, but peaceful conviction that this is exactly where I am meant to be.

I believe that the only things worth doing on earth are those that point us to our Eternal home. There is a version of me being grown, cultivated, enriched, and sanctified through this experience. In addition to that, throughout my journey across South Korea, I began to remember all the reasons why my heart felt so drawn to come here in the first place.

The vast, green land with its lush mountains and rice fields. The sparkling, clean cities filled with hidden cafés, corner restaurants, and artisan shops. The simplicity of daily life—the humble cuisine, the quaint churches, the kindness of strangers. The children who ask, “Where are you from?” The elderly woman at the bus stop who shared boiled potatoes with me while we chatted in our broken Korean and English. The young man who held an umbrella over me while I stood in the rain watching a street performer sing. The abundance of “yeoppoeda!” (“You’re pretty!”) I hear everywhere I go. My sweet students, so new to this world, who are entrusted to my care each day. I’m nearly moved to tears realizing what an incredible privilege it is to shape them, love them, and watch them grow.

Yes, these first few weeks were hard.

But strangely, also healing.

South Korea’s Role in My Journey

South Korea means so much to me because it has played—and continues to play—a key role in my healing. Everyone has their own path toward wholeness and becoming who they’re meant to be. For me, Asia, and especially South Korea, has been deeply transformative.

It started with a simple love for Korean music. Upon discovering BTS in high school, I was deeply touched by these seven boys who weren’t much different from myself. They put words and melodies to things I felt deeply, but never knew how to convey. I felt understood and seen. My experience of life, youth, love, and suffering were validated. BTS made me feel real. On the outside, some might consider it an immature boy band obsession—but truly, God used their music to heal and uplift me.

Later, when I was entrenched in gut health issues and riddled with chronic anxiety, Asian food and wellness practices were the only things that brought relief. I went from panic attacks, Lexapro pills, and frequent migraines—to nothing. Discharged from therapy, sleeping through the night, and IBS-free! For once, I found an approach to health and happiness that reflected the multifaceted nature of the human person1.

Giving Back What Was Given to Me

Yes, South Korea has had a huge impact on my healing and my happiness. And the journey isn’t over! Even now, as I navigate early adulthood, it continues to play a key role.

I’m learning so much about who I am and who God is through this time.

Isn’t that what makes life so beautiful? We give of ourselves in love, we make space for others in this world, and we do our best to live our journey well.

Perhaps, that’s why I keep going and why I refuse to quit even when it’s been hard at certain moments. I truly believe that there is nothing better I could be spending my time on than giving myself back to God in the work I do each day and experiencing the beauty of his wonderful creation.

South Korea has given so much to me and helped me heal, so it is my joy to give back by educating its future leaders and walking with others in this place as they heal, too.

I’ll be honest: for a while, the first thing that came to mind when I thought of self-love was bubble baths, scented candles, expensive facials, and sweet treats. I think self-love has been productized. As if we could buy it. As if the very thing we all lack—driving us to depression, loneliness, and suicide—could be found in a box of dark chocolates or a day at the spa.

I’m not dissing self-care; it certainly has its place!

But what is the very granular, very deep-seated, nearly invisible reality behind so much unhappiness and despair? It’s becoming more apparent to me how important this question is, because I’ve been confronted by it in unignorable ways over the past few years.

Running in Circles

For too long, it was as if I were trying to outrun myself because I was so unhappy with who I was.

Last month, while hiking with an old college friend of mine, I started to reminisce about my University days. For the first time, I described in detail some of the intense anxiety and struggles I experienced during that season of my life.

“Dang,” my friend gasped, eyes widening in surprise, “Kathryn, I never realized how much you were going through! You just always seemed to be doing great. Everyone thought of you as ‘the one who had it together.’ I had no idea you were having such a hard time.”

I gave her a sad, knowing smile. “I know. That was what I wanted you to think. I was really, really good at acting like I had it together.”

It’s crazy how no one would’ve known that I was struggling with my own sense of self-hatred, simply because I was excellent at putting a sparkling mask over the deformity of my insecurity.

What They Saw vs. Who I Was

To make things worse, my sparkling mask was complimented. Praised, even.

Overworking at my job got me money and recognition. Excelling in school got me accolades and bragging rights. Juggling multiple social groups meant I was well-perceived and liked by others. Worrying about my appearance got me compliments and admiration.

This feedback positively reinforced my negative behavior. The overperforming just got worse, and the cycle went on and on. Even though deep down I was anxious and couldn’t stand myself, I put on a good show.

Well, until I couldn’t.

Outrunning oneself is a futile race. Because eventually, you catch up with yourself.

How I Finally Caught Myself

Through a series of quarter-life crises in my early twenties (including the infamous car dealership episode), I started to realize that a lot of my anxiety and stress came from deep dissatisfaction with who I was. My inability to accept myself, flaws and all, was holding me down. It weighed me down wherever I went, like a ball and chain around my leg. But I refused to let it go.

In fact, I was scared to let it go.

Somewhere along the way, I became attached to my constant dissatisfaction with myself. Like a motivational drug, it pushed me to improve and chase bigger, greater things. The me who was rigid and disappointed with how I was was also the me who was self-disciplined and successful.

It was like pine needles on a campfire. They burn rapidly, brightly, and beautifully. Yet as soon as they erupt into flames, they burn out and die. When self-hatred was my fuel, the same thing happened. I erupted into success, productivity, and dopamine—but I quickly burnt out, and had to find some new flaw to hate in order to stay motivated.

It was exhausting! The mask grew heavier and heavier as time dragged on, leaving me drained and lonely. I started to wonder what it might be like if, instead of feeding the fire with dry pine needles of self-loathing, I put a good, solid piece of self-compassion on it. Like sturdy oak, it might take time to catch.

At first, it might look like nothing was happening. But eventually, the flame would grow—strong, bright, consistent, and stable.

Why It Hit Me Now

All of these thoughts came crashing down on me this past week as I started my new job teaching English in South Korea.

To be honest, it was a tough week. I got really sick (my body is NOT used to these Korean cold germs) and had very little time to rest. My lack of training and teaching experience meant I continually made mistakes that got me in trouble with management. It felt like whatever I did, it was the wrong thing.

On top of that, unhappiness with how long it’s taking me to adjust to life here began to gnaw at my soul.

I miss my friends and family every day and crave the comfort of home. Yes, I love Korea. Yes, I’m thankful to be here. But it’s still a foreign country. Everything feels different, difficult, and uncomfortable. I started to get frustrated with myself—why couldn’t I adjust sooner, sleep better, or learn the language faster? I started to hate on myself again.

Then I realized, when I was brushing my teeth: the worst thing you can let get taken away from you is your own self-compassion.

If I let my irritated boss take away my self-compassion, they’ve won. If I let challenging situations strip me of it, I’ve handed over a piece of me that is far too precious and sacred. Showing patience, kindness, and love towards myself in the midst of situations and people who won’t do the same is one of the hardest things I’ve ever done.

But hard as it is, I can’t go back to self-hatred as my motivation. I still will slip up (and already have). But I refuse to start running from myself.

I am who I am today—with all my mistakes and insecurities. And I am loved as I am.

I hold that close and lift my head high, knowing that if I maintain my ability to love myself—even when it gets tough—I will be okay.

It was right there—right out my window. And now, as the plane gained speed and lifted off the runway, it grew smaller and smaller beneath me. Hot tears flooded my eyes and spilled down my cheeks. I took in a shaky breath and lay back in my seat. God, please take care of me.

I fell into a dreamless and restless sleep, only waking once by someone tucking a blanket around me. I cracked open my eye to see the old Korean grandma right next to me, covering me with her blanket to make sure I was warm and no part of my skin was exposed to the cold air.

That was God saying, I am taking care of you. I always will.

Working at a 학원 (Hagwon)

After landing in Seoul, I had a long bus ride through the mountainous countryside to get to my new city. I arrived at 1 am, and a dear friend of mine who had been living/working in South Korea for the past couple of years picked me up at the bus station. She showed me to my new apartment and hugged me before heading off to bed, “I’ll see you in the morning for work!” My mind bent over backwards to fathom that I would start a new job at a Korean Hagwon—a private educational institution—in six hours.

Korea has a phrase “빠리 빠리” which means, “quickly! quickly!”

That’s exactly what my first week was like. The mornings start at 9 am, with one hour of admin work in the teacher's office until the Kinder students arrive at 10 am. Then, I’m teaching my Kinder students the English curriculum until 2:30 pm. Then, beginning at 3 pm, Elementary school students are bused to the Hagwon for afternoon English lessons. The days are long and fast-paced. But every time I see the faces of my students, their eyes full of wonder and curiosity, I remember why I decided to do any of this in the first place.

South Korea is a small and sometimes forgotten country. The Korean language is only spoken by 1.01% of the entire world’s population. By teaching these young children English, I’m doing more than merely instructing them in a new language. I’m handing them a key to unlock a world of possibilities, ideas, opportunities, and dreams that they would never have access to if they were only to speak Korean for the rest of their lives. I’m giving them the wings to fly wherever they are called to go, and to confidently communicate and express themselves when they do so.

As someone who has been deeply touched and inspired by Korean culture, I love knowing that every day I am empowering these kids to share their culture with the world. And hopefully, change and inspire others along the way.

Everything I’ve Done Wrong (so far lol)

Yes, I love being here, and I love the kids!

But this was my FIRST week working in a foreign country, and mannnn did I make some mistakes. So here are some funny tales of what’s happened so far:

• Gave a death curse to all my students😀! I wrote my Elementary students’ names in red dry-erase marker, and the entire class started gasping and whispering. Then, I was told by my supervisor that writing someone’s name in red ink is an age-old Korean superstition. It means the person will die a horrific death very soon. Not a great moment for the new teacher!

• I printed coloring pages for my Kinders, only to be told that our Hagwon Director doesn’t approve of this. Korea is very strict with education, and it is believed that every minute at the Hagwon should be spent on learning (not art). Oops.

• Got tricked by some students into playing Hangman. Apparently, this game is forbidden at my Hagwon for being too violent. Well, my Elementary class knew that I would have no idea about that rule, so they told me we should play in the free time we had after covering course materials. I got in trouble for doing that.

All funny foreigner mistakes aside, everyone at my Hagwon has been very welcoming and kind to me. I have an eclectic team of American teachers, South African teachers, and Korean teachers. It’s inspiring to see people from all over the world coming together to educate and care for these children.

Initial Experiences as a Foreigner

I haven’t experienced too much “culture shock” since moving. I like to joke with my friends that long before I physically moved to Korea, my soul had already been here.

Eating Korean food regularly, studying the language, listening to k-pop and krnb, watching k-dramas, and reading every book on life in Korea that I could find, prepared me well. Being here gives me a sense of completeness. The interests, hobbies, and random knowledge I’ve accumulated through the years are finally getting put to use. I’m having conversations in Korean with grandpas on the bus. I know the music on the radio and can sing along. I use popular expressions and make my Korean coworkers laugh. I dress in Korean clothes and use Korean skincare.

There’s a line in the song, “Golden” from Kpop Demon Hunters that comes to mind: “Called a problem child, cuz I got too wild. Now that’s how I’m getting paid.”

Now, I don’t want to brag or rag on anyone over what I’m doing now. Pride does indeed cometh before the fall (I know from firsthand experience lol). However, I feel a deep sense of satisfaction recognizing that what used to make me “weird” and “cringey” in America is giving me the tools to fit in and thrive in South Korea.

I might’ve been weird to some people, but now that’s how I’m getting paid☺️.

First Snapshot of Korean Culture

I could write a whole different post just on my observations on South Korea’s culture (and I probably will)! But for now, I just want to share some of the good, bad, and ugly of living in Korea so far.

• Everything American is COOL. Korean’s are fascinated by and enchanted with all things American. English is considered “aesthetic.” Random and nonsensical English phrases are thrown on t-shirts, mugs, and signs everywhere. It makes me smile because I think all things Korean are cool. I guess it’s a two-way street! I’ve had multiple Koreans approach me and say “hello” and “where are you from” because they are excited to see foreigners and practice English.

• The South Korea glow-up is real (and not because of plastic surgery). I’ve not even been here a week, and I’ve already noticed an improvement in my skin, my hair, and my overall energy. Korean food is extremely healthy (I eat rice, soup, cooked vegetables, and fish every day). I walk everywhere and trek multiple flights of stairs daily. The humidity helps my hair curl! Plus, I don’t know if it’s the water, or the food, or what—but my acne is gone. Don’t even know why. Not gonna pretend to. But I’m amazed!!

• Yes, Koreans have been nice to me. I’ve had people ask me about how I’ve been treated as a foreigner, and I will begin with the disclaimer that I understand EVERYONE’S experiences are different. People are people everywhere you go—some are kind, and some are not. However, most of the complaints I hear about rude Koreans come from foreigners who are, themselves, kinda rude. Korean culture is about respect, honor, and caring for the collective. Americans tend to be self-absorbed, individualistic, and at times, entitled. This annoys Koreans, which may make them come off as cold or rude. However, as a girl raised in a very traditional and conservative household, trained from a young age to think about the collective (one of eight siblings), I haven’t found Koreans to be rude at all. I’ve had multiple people help me with directions, given me food when they know I haven’t eaten, complimented me, and even just offered a polite bow or smile at the park. I really believe that the energy you put into the world is what you get back, regardless of culture or country.

• Everything is clean and beautiful and safe. I have an apartment in the heart of the city, and all week I have heard only two sirens. I walk around alone at night without fear. I have yet to see a single piece of trash. It’s honestly incredible. There are walking paths everywhere and greenery throughout the city. Koreans take very great care of their cities and have a no-nonsense attitude toward tomfoolery, and it shows in how clean and crime-free their cities are.

South Korea is truly wonderful! But it’s not heaven. So some of the bad and ugly…

• So. Much. Smoking. Cultural and social smoking is still very much a norm in South Korea, much like it was in the US back in the 1900s. I smell cigarette smoke everywhere.

• Overworking is ✨cool✨. America has a growing awareness of mental health and the need for work/life balance. It seems to me that Korea has yet to embrace this, and working yourself to death is praised and admired.

• Kids don’t play. I suppose that’s a slight overstatement—I’m sure kids do play at home. For like, maybe an hour. Mostly, kids in South Korea are in school from sunup to sundown. Education is top priority, often at t

  he expense of play, creativity, and time for kids to just be…well, kids.

• Lookism. This is a sensitive topic that I intend to elaborate on at another time when I can develop a well-thought-out piece. However, to put it bluntly, Korea is very fixated on physical appearance. It’s a double-edged sword. I’ve had multiple people compliment my looks (and even give me discounts at the store and free things) simply “예뻐서” or “because I am pretty”. Is this fair? Not really. It’s flattering, but should I feel flattered? Like I said, it’s complicated. Eventually, I’ll open that Pandora’s box when I have a solid perspective to yap about. For now, it’s safe to say South Korea could stand to be a bit less focused on external beauty, a fleeting and subjective thing.

• Expensive fruit. Many things in Korea are wayyy less expensive than in America, which makes the rampant consumerist in me itch like crazy. However, for multiple reasons (like poor access and the cost of imported goods), most fruit is pricey. This might not bother some people, but I’m a fruit addict who ate a piece of fruit with every meal at home in America. I’m suffering now! I paid $18 USD for three pears and a persimmon to an old lady at a fruit stand yesterday. Insane. But I didn’t mind too much because that old lady was so cute.

More to come! Stay tuned!

Overall, this entire week has been wonderfully overwhelming and horrifyingly incredible. I miss home like crazy. Some mornings I wake up and look out my window and think, “What am I doing in Southeast Asia?! I’m the kid who had to go home from sleepovers because I got so homesick and anxious!”

Truthfully, I am still that kid.

I still sleep with my teddy bear, I don’t like going to the doctor’s office without my Mom, and I’m scared of the future.

But, it hit me as I sat in Mass this morning, at a quaint Korean church on the edge of the city. . .God is always the same. No matter where I go or what I’m doing, I have one thing in my life that has never changed and will never change, and that’s God’s love for me. Even on the other side of the planet, as far away as I could be from everything that makes me feel safe, I know I am safe.

By His grace, I’ll move forward into this new season, and we’ll see what happens next. Let’s just hope it doesn’t involve more red ink death curses😅.

Unfortunately, that’s not the case.

The instructions from my employer abroad were clear: two checked bags (50 lbs max), one carry-on, one personal item. That’s it. That’s all I’m allowed to take with me when I begin my new life in South Korea.

Facing my cluttered reality

I’m not scared to admit it—I’m a maximilist by nature. Ever since I was a kid, I collected random trinkets with sentimental value, held onto things that reminded me of people I loved, and hoarded items most people would consider “garbage.” Letting go of my belongings felt like letting go of a part of myself. I recall the dreaded Spring cleaning that happened each year when I was growing up. I would put up a fight as my Mom went through old things to give to our church rummage sale. I’d sneak into the donation pile when no one was looking and “rescue” a poor plushie or battered book to stay with me instead of being sold to a stranger.

Working two luxury retail jobs in my early adulthood didn’t help my case. Thanks to my dangerously generous employee discount, an embarrassingly large portion of my paycheck went straight back into the company. I curated a Vogue-worthy wardrobe of custom pieces that, once again, felt like an extension of myself. And then there were the shoes: sneakers for every occasion, statement heels, and so. Many. Boots.

So here I was—a chronic collector and shameless consumerist standing in front of two suitcases and a carry-on bag for an overseas move. My heart sank to the floor when I realized what it meant: I’d have to start letting go of things.

Deciding what goes and what stays

Like any knowledge-seeking Gen Z, I turned to Instagram for wisdom on what to keep and what to toss. I asked, “How do you decide what goes and what stays?” and was instantly met with a flood of replies from friends and peers who faced the same struggle and found their own tried-and-true systems.

Here’s some of the advice I got:

• “I normally get rid of something I haven’t worn in the last 4 months.”

• “Hmmm, what makes you feel like home? What have you worn the most in the last year?”

• “Try every garment on lol.”

• “If you can’t remember the last time you wore it, then it needs to go lol.”

• “If it’s in every wash, def keep. If not, make yourself wear it that week and you’ll know if you love it or not.”

• “Take the useful but unique things. Leave extra stuff that’s easily replaceable at any store.”

• “Will I miss it in two months? Like, genuinely be looking for it?”

Armed with their advice (and a few of my own ideas), I created a system to filter through twenty years’ worth of belongings. My rules were simple:

• Absolute necessities

• Things expensive, highly unique, or impossible to replace

• Items with unrepeatable sentimental value

• Stuff I won’t completely forget about after a year away

With these guardrails in place, I confronted my behemoth wardrobe, my mountain of shoes, and my overstuffed storage bins. Having once attempted the Marie Kondo method—where you keep only what “sparks joy” (spoiler: everything sparked joy, so that was a fail)—I found that honest, logical questions worked much better for me.

For example: black slacks for work, pajamas, and underwear? Absolute necessities—keep. Basic blue skinny jeans I only wore occasionally? Not unique, easy to replace—donate. My grandmother’s sewing box? Irreplaceable sentimental value—definitely keep. The army green cargo shorts I thrifted from Goodwill? Probably wouldn’t even remember them after a year—bye.

Letting go made room for something new

At first, downsizing felt like pulling teeth. Each sweater, each knick-knack, and each sneaker felt like a little piece of my heart was being yanked away. But as I let go of more and more things, something shifted.

I felt lighter. I felt freer. I felt happier.

For me, minimalism wasn’t a glamorous choice; it was forced by necessity. But it gradually grew on me. After moving four times in just two years, it hit me how exhausting all my materialistic tendencies had become. Having so much stuff scattered everywhere left me feeling scattered everywhere. And to what end? Did all those things really bring me joy, or had I fallen for the lie that I needed them to feel whole?

Letting go of 80% of my possessions was like being stripped bare—but it created space for a kind of freedom that I didn’t know was possible.

Minimalism as a lifestyle, not just a move

When I get to Korea, I’m sure part of me will see cute clothes and cheap consumer goods and wanna go HAM. But I’m determined to hold onto this newfound minimalist approach as more than a temporary necessity, but a lifestyle choice.

Not because I believe buying stuff for yourself is bad, or that owning nice things is wrong. I don’t think wanting to treat yourself from time to time should be off-limits, either.

It’s because I’m learning that no matter how much I own, it doesn’t translate into lasting happiness. Sure, there’s always a little dopamine hit when I score a fifth graphic hoodie from TJ Maxx. Then, I’m $30 poorer and not any better than before. Plus, there’s something exhilarating in packing up my life in two suitcases (okay, three, if you count the carry-on) and moving across the planet.

The week I was going through my things, I went to church and heard this verse that really called me out:

As I attempt to set my heart on things that bring lasting joy (rather than temporary thrills) the things I treasure has also changed. Though I never would have chosen it for myself, my pre-Korea purge freed me of material things that are simply just that—things. A whole, happy life is so much more than the stuff we have.

But I’m still shoving as many sneakers in my suitcase as possible. Duh.

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Okay, not literally.

For two and a half years, I attempted to heal my anxiety-related health issues, an ever-present ball and chain in my daily life. After consulting my doctor and only being prescribed medications that didn’t get to the root problem, I decided to pack my proverbial bags and go elsewhere. With my scrappy, part-time retail worker budget and full-time university schedule, traveling wasn’t an option. Instead, I turned to books, podcasts, and YouTube videos to explore different cultures and enlighten myself on their medicinal practices.

My journey led me (intellectually) across Asia, India, and Europe. I was shocked to discover the incredible wisdom and traditions embedded in their approaches to wellness—wisdom that often feels overlooked in the States.

Notoriously, America is a “Silver Bullet Society.”

We look for solutions that are easy, quick, and low-effort. We want to pop a pill, drink a powder, or—better yet—snack on a sugar-coated gummy and have our ailments evaporate. Obsessed with quick fixes and reliant on prescription drugs, America’s medical approach is often neither sustainable nor holistic. (The U.S. spends more per capita on prescription drugs than any other country in the world, and nearly 66% of adults take at least one prescription medication annually.[1][2])

Unveiling alternative medicine from other parts of the world was a stark contrast to the West. I found that Americans favor a cheap and fast fix to health problems, compared to many other cultures worldwide that take a slower, habit-based approach. For example, Traditional Chinese Medicine emphasizes balance, diet, and herbal therapy as part of lifelong health. Ayurveda in India focuses on lifestyle rhythms, digestion, and natural remedies to prevent illness [3][4]. European countries like Sweden and France emphasize moderation, community, rest, and pleasure as the best way to feel good inside and out.

Instead of herbs, foods, and lifestyle practices to prevent disease, the West often relies on medications to manage symptoms. And while U.S. doctors do practice preventive care (like screenings and vaccines), many patients still experience medicine—or “health”—primarily through prescriptions and symptom management. [5]

Now, let’s set the record straight—I’m not attempting to completely demonize Western healthcare in this article. As with most things in life, I think there is a balance and “happy medium” we should strive after. Truthfully, I probably would’ve met my end a long time ago had it not been for hospitals, antibiotics, or tetanus shots! And, I maintain that a well-thought-out supplement plan can be a beneficial addition to a healthy diet. C’mon, I love my little Vitamin C orange gummies, they’re so yummy.

However, I’d argue that maybe the American healthcare system isn’t always the best or most holistic approach to health and wellness.

After trying a myriad of medicinal practices from around the world, I’ve become a new person. Some of what I tried was life-changing, and other things…not so much. In this article (broken into three parts, covering Asia, India, and Europe), I’ve outlined which methods from each region I found highly beneficial and realistic to incorporate into my daily life. Perhaps you can try them too and see similar results! Or don’t, and just have fun learning about it all.

Ancient Wisdom, Modern Glow: Wellness Secrets from Asia

The first stop on my journey was the wonderful world of Asian wellness. Eastern countries boast some of the longest life expectancies and lower rates of chronic diseases compared to the U.S. [6] Grounded in thousands of years of tradition and increasingly supported by modern scientific evidence, there are multiple practices encouraged throughout China, Japan, and Korea that I’ve implemented in my life and found to be extremely effective.

You're not fat, you're just puffy—lymphatic drainage in TCM.

There is a strong emphasis in Eastern health systems on circulation, balance, and detoxification. The lymphatic system—made up of vessels, nodes, and organs that transport lymph (a fluid containing white blood cells, proteins, and waste products)—is essential for immune health, fluid balance, and filtering cellular debris. While Traditional Chinese Medicine doesn’t use the Western concept of the “lymphatic system,” it does focus heavily on moving stagnation, clearing dampness, and reducing swelling—ideas that overlap with what we now describe as lymphatic drainage. [7]

If you feel heavy, tense, and puffy, you need to try lymphatic drainage. My two favorite methods that I’ve incorporated into my daily routine are gua sha and foam rolling. Gua sha utilizes a smooth-edged tool (traditionally stone, but now sometimes aluminum or crystal) to gently scrape the skin, promoting circulation and helping reduce tension. Foam rolling has a similar effect for larger muscles—for a whole-body detox and refresh. When I first started doing all this, it felt weird. The idea was also foreign to me, as lymphatic drainage isn’t promoted in the West. Full transparency: it also kinda hurt in the beginning—my muscles and fascia were sore at first. But now, I’m hooked. My jawline and face look more “snatched” after gua sha, and nothing beats the feeling of a good foam roll to reduce tension, swelling, soreness, and inflammation after a long day.

• If you’re interested, you can buy a gua sha on Amazon here (only $5!) and follow this tutorial.

• This is the foam roller I got, and I love it. I followed the tutorial below and found it effective. The lady in the video is great at explaining how to do it!

Warm water isn’t gross, it’s healthy.

Ice water lovers, I’m sorry!

It’s widely believed in Asia that cold water and iced beverages can disrupt digestion. Traditional Chinese Medicine teaches that the key to health is balance, and cold beverages are thought to weaken the digestive “fire,” affecting the spleen and stomach functions, causing bloating or poor digestion.

Ironically, I was taught something similar as a child. I’ll never forget the chilling images that flashed through my mind when my dad told me, “Drinking ice water isn’t good for you, it’ll freeze your insides!” My Dad isn’t Asian (as far as I know. . .) but he wasn’t too far off with this advice. After banning myself from cold drinks for six months last year, I noticed a real improvement in my digestion.

Now, I’ve made it a daily habit to opt for lukewarm water instead of cold, and to skip the ice in my drinks at restaurants. I still enjoy an iced coffee now and then, because I don’t hate myself. But it’s become a treat rather than the norm.

Don’t knock it till you try it; you might find lukewarm water isn’t as gross as you think!

Tea over coffee.

Out of every wellness habit I’ve adopted, this one was by far the hardest.

I was a coffee ADDICT. I love the flavor, I love the smell, I love coffee shops, and coffee ice cream, and coffee-colored clothing. For years, I couldn’t wait to go to bed just so I could wake up and make coffee in the morning. I even love that obscure, early BTS song about coffee and blasted Espresso by Sabrina Carpenter for months after it got released.

I know, it’s excessive.

But alas, research suggests that tea contains an impressive range of health benefits that coffee struggles to compete with:

• Rich in antioxidants [8]

• May reduce the risk of heart disease and stroke

• Supports the immune system

• Soothes digestion

• Supports healthy weight management

• Could help protect bone health

• May play a role in cancer prevention (evidence is mixed, but hey, what could it hurt to try!)

Asian countries boast some of the highest-quality teas in the world. It’s consumed at multiple meals throughout the day and used in ceremonies and celebrations throughout the year. I religiously began my days with strong black coffee for most of high school and all of college. However, coffee in the morning can cause energy crashes and, for some people (as in me), worsen stress, anxiety, or digestive issues. When I swapped coffee for tea, it was rough at first, but I eventually adjusted. Now, I appreciate not shaking like a washing machine every morning and not having heart palpitations or panic attacks all the time. Imagine that.

Now, I start my day with Japanese matcha or loose-leaf black tea. My gut, my skin, and my mood have never been better!

• This brand, Naoki, is my holy grail Matcha. If I go any cheaper, I can taste the quality difference. It’s ceremonial grade and ethically sourced, too!

• I love Pur’eh tea, a fermented, Chinese black tea. I haven’t tried an online brand yet (my current Pur’eh was a gift from a friend in China). I’m sure there are some good brands online, but I’d recommend buying it from an actual Chinese/Asian brand. Look in the tea aisle at your local Asian market.

• My absolute favorite tea shop in the world, located in Ann Arbor, MI, sells its loose-leaf tea online here. It is some of the tastiest and high-quality tea I’ve had, and the variety is impressive.

Fermented foods galore.

Long before middle-aged suburban Moms were brewing kombucha and gym bros were downing vats of high-protein yogurt, Eastern countries were incorporating fermented foods into their diets every single day.

Asia is home to a rainbow of fermented foods: Korean kimchi (cabbage), Chinese douchi (fermented black beans), and Japanese miso and natto (soybeans). It’s common practice to eat small amounts of these foods as a side dish or an ingredient in a larger meal. This prevents the body from becoming “overloaded” on the fermentation, but helps enrich the gut microbiome with beneficial bacteria.

Thankfully, these types of foods are becoming more widely available in the US. Which means you don’t have any excuse not to at least try them!

• I’ve been purchasing Mother-in-Laws Kimchi from Meijer. I appreciate the convenience, as well as the tolerable spice level (I’m weak, okay?). I love it as a side dish at dinner, or in kimchi fried rice.

• I enjoy making miso soup; it makes miso happy! See what I did there? But seriously, this is a super easy way to incorporate fermented foods. I follow this recipe: Easy Miso Soup. Sometimes, if I’m feeling fancy, I add some rice ramen and mushrooms.

  Thanks for reading! Part 2 of this article will be out soon, so subscribe and BE READY! WOOO!!

If you want to learn more:

I’m no gatekeeper; if you want to learn more about Asian medicinal practices, check out these books and online platforms:

• The Five Elements Cookbook: A Guide to Traditional Chinese Medicine with Recipes for Everyday Healing By: Zoey Xinyi Gong

• Heal Yourself with Traditional Chinese Medicine: Find Relief from Chronic Pain, Stress, Hormonal Issues and More with Natural Practices and Ancient Knowledge By: Lily Choi & Bess Koutroumanis

• On Instagram, @theeasternphilosophy has some great information, and I’ve learned a lot through following their page.

• She’s mainly geared toward a female audience, but @GloriaSong on YouTube offers practical, down-to-earth health and fitness advice based in TCM practices.

References:

I feel so smart and official because I’ve even included rEfRenCesS…

[1] OECD (2023). Pharmaceutical Spending. OECD Data
[2] CDC (2023). FastStats: Therapeutic Drug Use. National Center for Health Statistics
[3] NIH. Traditional Chinese Medicine: What You Need to Know. NCCIH
[4] NIH. Ayurvedic Medicine: In Depth. NCCIH
[5] U.S. Preventive Services Task Force. Recommendations. USPSTF

[6] World Health Organization. World Health Statistics 2023. WHO
[7] National Library of Medicine. Traditional Chinese Medicine and Body Fluids. PMC
[8] Harvard T.H. Chan School of Public Health. The Nutrition Source: Tea. Harvard

"It's like a human only living on tofu, it keeps you strong, but you're never fully satisfied.” -Edward Cullen

When I read that line in Twilight for the first time last Fall, I nodded in deep, experiential solidarity. Believe it or not, I knew exactly what that feeling was like.

Why?

No, not because I’m a vampire (or am I?).

It’s because I went vegan for a year and a half.

Throughout my college years, I was racked with multiple random, unexplained gut issues.

I’ll never forget the way my doctor’s face twisted in confusion as I listed my weird symptoms: frequent migraines, unexplained dizziness, inflamed skin, stomach aches, endless fatigue, gas, bloating. . .I went on and on. After some head tilts and blank stares, I was crowned with the diagnosis of chronic IBS. The advice I got? Pop a Tums, try migraine meds, and avoid trigger foods. Suuuper helpful. *Insert sigh.* I decided in that moment that if I wanted something done right, I’d have to do it myself. I flew into a health-freak frenzy, scouring the internet, binging Apple podcasts, and checking out every book about gut health known to mankind from the library.

In my quest, I stumbled upon a niche group of doctors and health influencers who encouraged veganism as a sure-fire way to calm the gut and heal the body. Desperate for a solution, I bought in.

The science and logic behind the vegan diet

Don’t get me wrong—it wasn’t blind obedience. I did my research. I read the books. The science seemed to make sense. I learned that whole-body health begins in the gut, where an entire ecosystem exists—the gut microbiome. This is home to thousands of different bacterial strains, which feed on fiber. And fiber comes from plants.

I did the math: more plants = more fiber = healthier microbiome = HEALED.

I was sold! Despite being a diehard meat lover since childhood and living in the Cheese Capital of the World (a.k.a., Wisconsin), I gave it all up for a shot at a healthy, healed body.

Unfortunately, my experience of veganism didn’t quite turn out to be the gut-healing nirvana I expected.

In fact, it ended up being a risky endeavor that left my body depleted of key nutrients and even sicker than before. Still, I don’t regret that season in my life at all. It became the springboard for a deeper understanding of health and nutrition. Most importantly, it taught me where true nourishment lies—in the balance.

Why I DON’T regret going vegan

Beyond simply giving me a new ability to empathize with vampires, I grew a lot through being vegan. It’s hard not to come out transformed after a year of tofu, chickpeas, and more peanut butter than any human should consume in a day.

Why is that?

1. It taught me to incorporate whole foods into my meals

Before going vegan, I hardly consumed real, WHOLE foods. I don’t mean the boujee, overpriced supermarket. I mean eating actual, from-the-earth foods in their natural state.

A whole food is a food that has been processed or refined as little as possible and is free from additives or other artificial substances.

Cereal, pasta, and hot dogs used to be my go-tos. However, when I went vegan, I ditched the ultra-processed stuff and ate entire plants in their OG form. I reached for nuts, seeds, fruits, and vegetables for my regular meals. After doing this consistently, it became a habit. Now, I don’t even think twice about it.

Had I not gone vegan, I don’t know if I would have become a whole-foods eater

2. It opened my eyes to forgotten (and less expensive) protein sources

Like most people, I used to rely on meat as my main protein source. Unfortunately, meat—especially high-quality meat—is expensive and inconvenient to prepare. If it’s cheap, it’s probably not as nutritious. If it’s convenient (think lunch meat or beef sticks), it’s typically chemical-laden.

When I went vegan, my eyes were opened to a whole new world of protein sources that I could incorporate into my diet. Not to mention, WAY more affordable and convenient.

For example. . .

• Nuts and Seeds

• Whole Grains - Quinoa, Bulgur, Sprouted Wheat

• Tofu, Tempeh, and Soy Milk

• Beans and Legumes (Chickpeas, Lentils, Black Beans)

Despite meat, eggs, and some dairy having returned to my plate, I still rely on many of these “vegan” protein sources. My belly and bank account are both happy.

3. Cleared my skin, eased my migraines, and helped with PMS symptoms

My pre-vegan self took for granted the immense impact that food has on how we feel and look.

The night-and-day difference in my skin was straight out of The Princess Diaries makeover scene. My skin went from acne-ridden and breakout-prone to smooth and glowy within weeks of switching my eating habits. This also saved me money, since I no longer spent massively on skincare and makeup to cover my face.

Trust me, investing in internal health > investing in external looks.

The migraines that once plagued me disappeared—completely. And I’m not exaggerating. I went from having headaches daily to not even remembering the last time I had a headache. I threw out the prescription migraine drugs from my doctor. It felt great to get through the day without reaching for Tylenol or Motrin.

Finally, I noticed that when I went vegan, my bad period cramps and PMS symptoms eased significantly. This is because of the anti-inflammatory properties of vegan food, as well as the increased fiber intake, which helps eliminate excess estrogen in the body.

4. My micronutrient intake skyrocketed

Micronutrients are the vitamins and minerals found in plant foods that are vital for enzyme production, hormone regulation, immune system function, bone health, and energy metabolism.

The standard American diet, which is what I ate before going vegan, is devoid of the foods that pack in these necessary nutrients. Turns out, the lethargy, dizziness, and digestion issues I had weren’t some mysterious disease—they were my body’s SOS, telling me I was missing some key vitamins and minerals.

After being vegan for a few weeks, I had an incredible boost in energy, effortless digestion, and improved mental clarity. It was like I had leveled up in a video game, unlocking a type of wellness I didn’t even know existed.

In addition, I noticed that when everyone at work or home got sick, I somehow stayed healthy. Drifting between a college campus, a house full of kids, and a workforce of high school students, I completely immersed in a petri dish of common colds and stomach bugs (even COVID-19, at one point). I was left unscathed. Of course, many factors could have contributed, but it’s worth noting that I went from getting sick at least three to four times per year before going vegan to only getting sick once or twice.

Why I would NEVER go back to being vegan

After all that, you may wonder why I walked away from veganism. I’ll admit—it wasn’t an easy choice. Any lifestyle/habit change is always hard in the beginning, but giving up on veganism was particularly challenging.

Everyone in my life had been a victim of my rants about why being vegan was so amazing and smart. I had to admit that, perhaps, I wasn’t right about everything (such a shock, I know). Over time, I had also subconsciously built up a “fear” of animal foods. I associated eating meat and dairy with a time in my life when I felt sick and unconfident in my body. I had to deliberately rewire this mindset and offset the fear with a different, new experience.

After some serious reflection, I realized that it was time to eat my words and eat a steak. I’ve never looked back. Why?

1. Fiber overload = inflammation

This is where that old saying “you can have too much of a good thing” really applies. Because the vegan diet is nearly ALL plants, it is insanely high in fiber. Although a necessary and healthy part of your diet, it can be tough to digest in high quantities (especially when your gut isn’t used to it). When the only thing I ate was fiber, my body became “overloaded” as time went on. This caused my gut to become inflamed, worsening my IBS symptoms and leaving me sicker than before.

Another caveat with fiber—it’s highly filling, but low in calories, which is why it’s touted for weight loss. For some people, this might help achieve a healthy body weight, but for me, it became problematic. I would get full quickly, but not consume enough calories or protein to match my highly active lifestyle. The initial energy boost I experienced when I first went vegan quickly plummeted, as my body struggled to keep up on a low-calorie intake and protein deficit.

2. Malabsorption, Malnurishment, and Malaise

Another issue with veganism that often gets overlooked is the problem of malabsorption. For your body to reap all the benefits of a certain food, that food must be “bioavailable.”

Bioavailability of food refers to the extent and rate at which a nutrient is absorbed and becomes available for the body to use.

Unfortunately, while plant-based foods are rich in minerals and vitamins, they’re bound up with substances like fiber, oxylates, and phytates, which can reduce and inhibit absorption. A shame. I was supposedly eating the healthiest foods on the planet, but my body wasn’t efficiently absorbing the nutrients.

Malnourishment eventually ensued, and a malaise followed.

My Vitamin D, Iron, Choline, and B12 levels dropped severely, and I found myself living in a constant state of discomfort and fatigue. I had already been diagnosed with mild anemia in high school, so I was predisposed to some of these issues—but I didn’t realize how serious it could become. I was cold and dizzy all the time, having frequent episodes of nearly passing out. My energy dwindled like a quenched flame because of a lack of B12 and Vitamin D. My brain was foggy, and my workout recovery was poor because of low choline. Managing mood swings, anxiety, and stress (which is already hard!) became increasingly difficult.

In the second half of my vegan saga, I experimented with supplements to try and rebalance. Eventually, I asked myself the harder questions: If my body clearly needs these nutrients, why am I not giving it what it’s asking for? Is it really sustainable — or even healthy — to rely on sugary supplement gummies just to compensate for what my diet lacks?

3. Never satisfied, always craving more

It’s hard to describe this feeling to someone who has never been vegan for a significant amount of time.

I would finish my meals, and although I would be physically full, I wouldn’t be truly satisfied. Lacking protein, healthy fats, and key nutrients—which are more bioavailable and abundant in animal-based foods—the satiety of my meals was seriously lacking. I was constantly beset with cravings for sweets and caffeine (my body’s way of compensating for the lack of energy I had). I fell into a vicious cycle of downing spoonfuls of peanut butter, chugging coffee and energy drinks, and splurging on sugary, carb-heavy snacks.

Yes, it was all technically “vegan.” But that didn’t make it healthy, by any means.

I’ll always love peanut butter, but now I can say, “I can quit whenever I want,” and actually mean it.

4. Restricted, unbalanced lifestyle and missing out

Sometimes, I just wanted to have a burger that my dad grilled on a Summer evening.

And was that a bad thing? Not at all. As time went on, I started to recognize how far-fetched and unrealistic my vegan diet had become. Sure, I genuinely liked plant-based meals, enjoyed a healthier lifestyle, and got a kick out of learning 78 different ways to cook tofu. But I really wanted to go out for ice cream with my mom, partake in charcuterie board night with the girlies, and share a chicken sandwich with my brother.

My mindset on health started to expand and become more three-dimensional. I wanted nourishment and joy. I wanted attainability and sustainability. I wanted eating habits that supported not just my gut and body, but my mind and soul. The restriction and energy expenditure to maintain the label of “vegan” came at too high a cost.

And let’s be real—if ice cream has to go, that is a price far too high.

A year and a half well spent

When all is said and done, I’m thankful for my vegan era and all it taught me. I should make this disclaimer: everyone’s body is different; this is just my personal story, not medical advice. So please don’t come for me in the comments!

My time being vegan reinforces a deeper belief I have that every experience we go through in life has validity and purpose, even if we wouldn’t return to it, per se.

However, it is we who must choose to allow it to become that.

See how deep that got? And here you judged me for opening this post with a quote from Twilight.

I shivered, my skin turning to gooseflesh as AC blasted on top of me. I took a shaky breath, my nostrils assaulted with the smell of cigarette smoke, tire rubber, and new leather. Four sales managers stared down from their tall, connected desks. I inwardly threw punches at whoever engineered those desks to be so freaking tall—I can barely see over the top of it! Then again, it occurred to me, I’m sure whoever engineered it probably didn’t think a 5’3” twenty-year-old woman would be in here.

“So? What did you get?” one manager asked. He was the youngest (and harshest) of them all.

I held my breath, dreading my impending fate when I divulged the truth.

“Nothing,” I murmured, bracing myself.

Suddenly, all the managers’ heads swung over to me, like starving vultures that spotted a helpless mouse. They all began squaking at once, drilling me on what selling questions I asked and how many times I pushed back when the customer refused to buy.

“They’re already on a tight budget!” I replied weakly, “This couple just had a baby, they can’t afford a wax coat on the car! They’re scraping just to buy diapers!”

“Didn’t you learn anything in sales training?” the older manager sneered. “The customer always acts like they have less money than they do. You could’ve sold it if you wanted to.”

“But I—”

“You’ll do better next time. Remind me tomorrow on your lunch break, we can roleplay responding to customer objections,” Younger Manager gave an oily, forced smile.

Ugh. Like he was doing some act of charity by offering this.

“Just process the paperwork so I can end the sale and be done with it,” I said, dragging my feet out of the office.

“HEY!” Older Manager yelled as I left, “Don’t forget about those customers looking for a truck on the car lot last night. Follow up until they buy or die!”

The vultures had devoured the helpless mouse.

The quarter-life crisis

The season at the car dealership melted into one long string of days. . .an endless cycle of work, sleep, work, sleep, work, sleep. Early mornings, dark and quiet. Long days on a sweltering car lot, desperate to sell and sell some more. Niavely innocent and excited at the promise of a six-figure salary at age twenty, I had accepted the Car Sales Advisor position without a second thought. After studying Business Administration: Marketing at breakneck speed and graduating with my bachelor’s degree in two and a half years, I was desperate to have my “life plan” laid out. I took the first job I could find. However, despite my intense efforts to secure my future and my happiness, I found myself lost and depressed after a few months of working at the dealership.

Car sales itself is an intense and rigorous occupation. Anxiety followed me around when I didn’t sell enough. I panicked if I missed one step, one signature, or one customer. The dealership environment (at least in my case) was a den of grim attitudes, normalized greed, and subtle backstabbing. Being the only woman on a team of twenty-one men, I was treated like a little decoration floating around the dealership, drawing in more sales. I became disillusioned as I deciphered the entire plot behind my employment. I was brought on to fill a slot—“innocent female car salesperson”—and attract a customer base that mistrusted the “traditional greedy car salesmen.”

I was a pawn in the money-grab game.

As the weeks dragged on, my awareness of the toxic environment became overwhelmingly obvious. I knew I was in the wrong place. I knew I wasn’t where I was meant to be.

But I stayed.

If you had asked me then why I didn’t leave right away, I probably would’ve had some pleasant-sounding excuse. “I’m no quitter, I’ll just keep trying.” “If I stay long enough, I’ll make a difference.” Like a girlfriend in denial of an abusive boyfriend, I told myself, “I can change them!” The truth of why I stayed when I knew it wasn’t right was attached to my fear of being out of control. Deep down, I was afraid to let go of my master plan. I hinged my peace, self-worth, and happiness on the illusion of sovereignty I constructed out of my premeditated career trajectory. To quit my job was to admit that I was wrong about my happiness and wrong about my life.

To quit my job was to be out of control.

I hit a pinnacle in my quarter-life crisis, as I cried on the bedroom floor of my apartment. I was on the phone with a mentor of mine when she set me straight. With gentle yet convicting words, she said:

“You’re afraid of being out of control because you fear it will make you miserable and lost. Look at yourself. All you’ve been is miserable and lost, yet all along, you’ve been in control.”

-Kathryn’s Mentor (she’s basically like Yoda).

The truth hit me like a 3000-ton Chevy Silverado. She was exactly right. In all my fighting to secure my peace and happiness, I had only made my condition worse.

The question that changed it all

Shortly after the conversation with my Yoda, I had a horrifying thought.

What if I died?

It sounds silly. After all, death is an inevitable reality for all of us. But what haunted me about this thought wasn’t the dying part, but what came before: the living.

If I died tonight, would I be happy with how I spent my life? Would I have lived it to the fullest, even in my youth? Would I have spent each day in alignment with what I believed to be God’s call?

The recognition that my life had an indefinite expiration that could come at any given moment yanked me from my control-grabbing and career-obsessed grind. As if a new lens were placed over my eyes, the time that lay before me took on a new meaning. I no longer saw my job as simply a means to earn a living, but as a way to give of myself in a meaningful and impactful way. I no longer saw my life as a series of predicted events, delicately built upon one another under my master plan. Rather, I embraced the unpredictable–yet beautiful–adventure of God’s plan for my life (which is infinitely better than anything I could conjure up on my own).

This shift didn’t cause depressive withdrawal; it energized me. I believe it is a necessary and upright thing to ponder one’s mortality. How many of us move about our daily lives, filling each minute with some activity, noise, or event? Our society teems with technology, salivates over stimulation, and bursts with business. It seems that we’ve become experts at avoiding the questions that really matter. Perhaps it’s because such questions force us to sit with truths we’d rather ignore—we are living our lives devoid of meaning, working at jobs we hate, investing in people who don’t bring out the best in us, and squandering time on things that are lower than the greatness we’re truly made for.

I’m not saying this as a sage on a mountain top who has transceded all of that (it sounds like a boring life, anyway). Rather, this comes from me as I am, still struggling daily to put my life into perspective. All too easily, I get dragged away in the current of to-do lists and social events. However, I’m gradually learning to anchor myself back to what matters. All with the simple question:

“If I died tonight, would I have lived this day well, doing what I believed to be the call of God on my life?

Memento mori: emo, but like, in a holy way

In multiple paintings of famous saints in the Roman Catholic Church (St. Jerome, St. Alphonsus, St. Benedict, to name a few) there’s a fun little detail I noticed: many of them are holding a skull or have one nearby.

Kinda creepy? Maybe.

These saints are people like us, but they chose to live radically purposeful and passionate lives. They allowed God to transform them completely. Is it any coincidence that they also had a radical awareness of their own mortality? I don’t think so.

Rooted in the belief that eternal life would follow their earthly lives, the saints spent their time doing good and giving of themselves in fulfilling, beautiful ways. My favorite, St. Francis of Assisi (whom I chose as my patron when I was confirmed in 2017), fondly referred to dying as “Sister Death.” This familial terminology reflects a core belief St. Francis embodied, that dying isn’t a horrid ending we should shrink from. Rather, death is a birth into eternal life that we should remain aware of in a healthy and holistic way.

Preceding the example of the saints, we see this concept all over Sacred Scripture. We are told in Sirach 7:36, “In all your works, remember your end, and you will never sin.” King Solomon reminds us, “Death is the destiny of everyone; the living should take this to heart” (Ecclesiastes 7:2). The book of James (chapter 4, verse 14) puts it most bluntly, “You are just a vapor that appears for a little while and then vanishes away.”

The fancy term for this concept is “memento mori,” which is Latin for “remember your death.” A more elaborate version of this ancient saying goes, “Memento mori, quare ne obliviscaris vivere.” Literally: “Remember you must die, therefore do not forget to live.”

I never thought that keeping my death in mind would be what would give me life. But that’s exactly what happened. The sadness I experienced during that post-college car sales girlie era flowed from an over-obsession with my life plan. Getting caught up in the overwhelming present experience bogged me down. When I zoomed out a bit, memento mori taught me:

• Appreciate the present moment:
  I was reminded to cherish the present moment and not take what I have for granted, embracing every person and good thing in my life.

• Living virtuously:
  I realized I couldn’t take money or material goods with me at the end. I began to focus on what I could take with me…the souls I served, the virtues I cultivated, and the love of God I practiced daily.

• Finding hope in the face of death:
  Rather than being a cause of despair, memento mori helped me place my hope in eternal life. It’s relieving to remember that this isn’t all there is (thank goodness haha)!

• Discernment:
  Reflecting on my death helped me make crucial life decisions, prioritizing what truly mattered instead of getting distracted by little things that don’t retain relevance in the big picture.

Changed priorities, changed trajectories

When I adopted the memento mori mindset, things quickly began to change. I quit my car dealership job, for one. I started to ponder what truly mattered to me. I asked myself how I wanted to spend my days, my evenings, my weekends, and my free time. I asked myself what kind of life I wanted to build and what kind of woman I wanted to become.

My priorities changed, and so did I.

In early 2025, I moved out of state to work at a start-up marketing agency. Now, almost exactly a year since I quit that car sales job, I’m getting visa paperwork processed to begin a job abroad in South Korea.

Since I was young, I’ve dreamed of seeing the world and experiencing life in a culture different from my own. What started in high school as an interest in Korean music and media eventually grew into a deep love of the culture, language, and tradition. For quite a few years, I played around with the idea of studying abroad, but never had the chance because of restrictions within my university. This past Spring, I started to look into it again and discovered the opportunity to teach English to Kindergartners while living abroad. One TEFL Certification later, I applied for the role and was offered a contract in early Summer of 2025.

As a professional overthinker, I’ve asked myself if signing the contract was a reckless or unwise thing to do. After all, it’s not like I’m unhappy in my current life. I’m doing well at my job, climbing the corporate ladder, and networking in the local business community. I’m making new friends at church and living with old friends whom I love dearly.

It’s harder to say yes to an unknown, potential greatness than it is to give up a current, known good. But a voice deep inside me whispered, “memento mori, quare ne obliviscaris vivere.”

I won’t lie and pretend that the decision has been automatically easy. As with any decision in life, a “yes” to something is an automatic “no” to other things. I’m wading deep into murky and uncharted waters in the months to come, and although it’s exciting, it’s also scary. I can’t guarantee the outcome of a choice like this, and while I have hope that there is something more for me on the other end of it, there is no absolute certainty. However, every day, I choose to put my heart where absolute certainty does exist—wherever I go, I go with God. If I died tonight, I would be thankful that I took the risk, spent my days giving back, serving the children in South Korea, embracing the beauty of the diverse world, and growing into the woman I’m meant to be. And yes, it is still scary.

So, I’ll do it scared.

I will not forget to live, for I know I must die.

Sooo, who even are you?

I’m Kathryn Anne, nice to meet you! Here are some facts about me:

• I was born in 2003 on the 4th of July. My parents nicknamed me “Firecracker.”

• Raised in southeast Michigan. Moved to Wisconsin in high school. Moved back to Michigan post-college (I’m lactose intolerant and not a Packers fan…sorry, Wisco).

• If my life were a movie, the genre would be “chaotic comedy with unexpected depth and constant plot twists.”

• My hobbies include playing Just Dance for excessive durations of time, cooking obscure health recipes from Pinterest, reading, hiking, and watching K-dramas with my aunt (Han Seo-jun is mine, Aunt Holly).

• I function on 70% caffeine, 20% goal-driven madness, and 10% overthinking everything. And of course, 110% LOVE for Jesus and His church.

• I do not have my life together, but I do have a beautiful planner that makes it look like I do.

I’ve been writing stories from the time I was first able to hold a pencil in my hand. I love to paint pictures with my words and discuss the breathtakingly beautiful and crushingly confusing reality of life.

Why are you writing on Substack?

Releasing my written work online is something I’ve fantasized about for a while now. But I kept telling myself things like:

“You don’t have time for that.”

“You have nothing interesting to share.”

“There are so many better writers than you, it would make you look like a joke.”

I let those fears stop me. I was afraid for the longest time.

Heck, I’m still afraid.

But here I am. Because even if I’m just one little voice amid a million voices, even if only one person finds what I say helpful or encouraging, and even if only my Mom reads this (hi, Mom!) I believe that everyone has a story worth telling.

This is where I’ll tell mine and share some of the things I’ve learned along the way, so you can learn, too. We can learn together.

It’ll be fun :).

What should I expect if I subscribe?

In addition to my newsletters, where I share candid, down-to-earth insights and thoughts, I want to build an EMPIRE. A community, if you will.

The articles I’m sharing are things I would say if we were sitting together on the front lawn, casually chatting about life and enjoying the beauty around us.

This space is for anyone who wants to grow, learn, and live life on fire with passion and purpose.

Here’s what you’ll see in my posts:

1. Candid and conversational — like a heart-to-heart on a long walk or over iced coffee and matcha (mmmm, matcha).

2. Encouraging but real — Nothing sugarcoated. There’s too much sugar in everything, anyway. I want to give the facts! Realistic, yet hopeful. Aspiring for greatness, but embracing human-ness.

3. Rooted in the Catholic faith — No, not “shove it in your face” Catholicism (the watered-down and westernized version of Christianity we’ve become accustomed to). We’re talking authentic, down-to-earth, applicable spirituality, rooted in tradition and sacred scripture.

4. Feminine without being fluffy — dignified, graceful, and grounded. We’ll discuss womanhood in its true essence. More than just societal norms, false expectations, and current trends, to embrace both its struggles and joys.

5. Firecracker energy — a little bold, a little tender, always genuine. I take my nickname seriously, so you can expect to see that wittiness and spark in my writing.

I hope you’ll stick around. I have some great topics planned (and plenty unplanned, because life is like that, y’know).

Bye, for now!